


west side - newtmas

by ava_kay



Series: ariana grande inspired newtmas [2]
Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Angst, College student thomas, Dual POV, Inspired by an Ariana Grande Song, M/M, New York City, Smut, actor newt, famous newt, newt has issues, newt is in a glass closet, rated r, roommate thomas and minho
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:06:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 55,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28438107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ava_kay/pseuds/ava_kay
Summary: Thomas is a college student who really needs to focus on his midterms. But when his high school crush rolls into town starring in a Broadway show, things get a bit complicated.Newt is an internationally famous actor with so much hidden from the public, he can't even figure himself out. But when a boy he went to school with comes along and tries to get to know him, he'll have to start figuring that out.AKA: Newt is famous, Thomas is kinda obsessed with him, and their attempt at a friendship does not go as planned.TW: alcoholism and closeted Newt pretending to be someone he's not
Relationships: Newt & Thomas (Maze Runner), Newt/Thomas (Maze Runner)
Series: ariana grande inspired newtmas [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2083074
Comments: 77
Kudos: 90





	1. R.E.M.

Thomas had seen him in a dream. It was crazy—he hadn’t thought of him in forever. Well, aside from seeing the tabloids. Alright, maybe he has thought of him. But, to be fair, he’s everywhere nowadays.

Nonetheless, he appeared in the middle of the night. He was just like he used to be. Thomas couldn’t stop himself from running over to him. It was all so exciting, and he knew exactly what he wanted to say to him already. But the moment he opened his mouth, nothing would come out. Then, it all disappeared. 

That’s why, when he gets a call from Minho, Thomas’ heart jumps into his throat.

“Right now?” he asks into his phone before placing it on his bed, putting it on speaker.

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” Minho says. “He just got here, too, so if you hurry, you might make it.”

“What makes you think I want to see him?” Thomas asks, frantically throwing his drawer open and tearing through his clothes. Is any of this stuff clean? The closest laundromat is like five blocks away and an avenue over, so it’s not his fault. 

“Oh please, I know about your weird obsession,” Minho says, before taking an obnoxiously loud sip of something. 

“Is it weird to want to keep up with old friends?” Thomas asks, finally pulling out a black button-down he hasn’t worn in forever. That should be fancy enough, right? 

“If by that you mean stalking,” Minho says. “Alright, my date is here, so if you don’t mind.” 

And with that, Minho hangs up on him.

Thomas trips over himself, stepping out of his pants as he rips his shirt off. Where is his hair gel? Does he need it? It’s not that big a deal. God, his heart is pounding.

After a disastrous several minutes putting himself together, Thomas is finally out the door. He pats his pocket to make sure his keys and phone are in there, then closes the door behind him. He hasn’t slept a full night in a week with midterms coming up. Will it show? He sighs, starting down the three flights of stairs. This is what he gets for cheaping out on dorming. 

When he finally pushes his door open, he regrets not bringing a jacket. It’s getting colder finally, but in New York, there is no autumn. It goes from ninety to forty overnight.

What’s faster? Cab or subway? It’s only twenty blocks. Maybe cab is the way to go. No nonsense. 

Thomas steps off of the sidewalk, raising his arm, waving like a child in class. Finally, a cab pulls over, and Thomas yanks the handle, getting in the back. This better be worth it.

Minho is outside when Thomas gets there, flanked by some girl. This is how their bar nights usually go. Minho has some guy or girl on his arm, he chats them up, and tries to wingman for Thomas. But tonight, when Thomas approaches him, he only nods towards the door.

“He’s in there at the bar. He’s still nursing his first drink. Famous people are weird,” Minho says. “Anyway, I’m gonna bounce, but you let me know how it goes.”

“Will you be home tonight?” Thomas asks to cover his nerves.

Minho only winks at him before getting into the cab he’d just been occupying. He’ll take that as a no.

Thomas rushes to the door, grateful for the heat that hits him in full force as soon as he’s through to the vestibule. The next door leads to an expansive bar—and expensive, by the looks of it. It’s all marble floors, almost like a hotel lobby, but with a long bar to the left. Beside Thomas is a spiral staircase, where to, he doesn’t know. On the right are about a dozen tables. Everyone is dressed nicely, too. At least he’s not wearing jeans.

He timidly approaches the bar, staring at the sea of heads from behind. Everyone is spaced out slightly. There’s a blonde head towards the front, but when they turn, it turns out to belong to a man with a big nose and maybe ten years on him. Definitely not the guy he’s looking for. 

Thomas continues, watching person after person, until finally, he spots a red blazer. One he recognizes from photos and interviews. 

His stomach flips as he watches the man’s hand grab his drink, his phone set beside it face up like he’s waiting for something. He likely is. But nobody is beside him. If he was waiting for someone, they’d either be here by now or are standing him up. He’s totally open.

Thomas takes a step closer, swallowing hard. He can do this. “Newt?”

The blonde turns his head. At first, his expression is neutral. Then, he smiles with only his lips. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Thomas says, taking another step closer. The music here isn’t so loud, unlike the bars he’s used to, but with all the chatter, he needs to speak up. “You probably don’t remember me, but I’m Thomas.”

Newt looks him over again, then his smile gets wider. “Of course I do! I remember all of my fans. How are you?”

On the outside, Thomas lets out a chuckle. On the inside, his chest goes hollow. “No, um—we went to school together. Tarry Hill High.”

Newt blinks. Then lets out a laugh just as awkward as Thomas’. “That’s uncomfortable, isn’t it?” he asks. Then, he nods to the seat next to him. “Sit.”

It takes a moment for the very starstruck Thomas to respond, but finally, he sits on the surprisingly plush stool. “So,” he starts, unable to look Newt in the eyes due to the proximity, “when celebrities tell fans they recognize them, it really is a lie?”

This time, Newt’s chuckle is more genuine. “To be fair, we meet a lot of fans. And a lot of ‘long lost cousins.’ And,” he says, giving Thomas a look so pointed that he’s forced to meet his eyes, “a lot of people we went to school with.”

Thomas nods. “Fair enough. It has been six years,” he says, a humiliating heat in his cheeks. “But I can prove it.”

“Oh, yeah?” Newt asks, grabbing his drink and taking a sip. 

In response, Thomas takes out his phone, trying with all his might to not let his shakiness show. He can hardly unlock the thing before he’s clicking on his Facebook, Newt’s gaze unwavering.

He peeks over. “Facebook?”

Thomas smiles sheepishly. “I used it in high school a lot. Not so much now.”

He clicks on his profile to find his most recent update. Six hours ago.

“Not so much, huh?” Newt asks.

“In my defense,” Thomas says as he scrolls fervently through his photos, “it was for a college group.”

Newt nods in his peripheral vision as he finally comes to sophomore year of high school. God, why did he post his every move back then? His scrolls get slower until he finally comes across it. Because he doesn’t trust himself, he puts his phone on the bar.

“We were sixteen there,” he says. “That’s me, and that’s you.”

Thomas’ heart pounds so loud, it drowns out the rest of the place. Newt, meanwhile, leans in, inspecting the photo. It’s the cast of some stupid play they were in together. _Noises Off_ , it was called. 

“I remember this,” Newt says. This time, it’s real, his expression lighting up. He looks back to Thomas, smile broadening. “You played…”

“Freddie,” Thomas says. “Not the best part, but I was there.”

“I remember I didn’t even want to do the play. I was so behind in school, but my mum made me do it anyway.”

“Still nabbed the lead,” Thomas says, taking his phone back before Minho gets the chance to ruin this with some off-color text. “It paid off, right? Now you’re on Broadway. Among other things.”

Newt shrugs, looking back at his glass. Thomas takes the momentary break to look at him. His slender fingers, his lean torso, strong jawline, and—is that an ear piercing?

“ _Death of a Salesman_. I was going to do a musical, but something went wrong,” Newt says to his drink.

“What happened?”

He looks back at Thomas. “I can’t sing for shit.”

Thomas snorts, unable to stop himself, and before he can wonder if Newt didn’t notice, he gets an amused glint in his eyes.

“I always wondered why you never did the musicals at school,” Thomas says to try to mask his embarrassment.

Newt watches him for a beat too long to be normal. His deep brown eyes do not one but _two_ lookovers of Thomas, and Thomas’ mouth goes dry. “Now you know,” he says.

Jesus. 

Thomas blurts it out as if possessed by his teenage self. “Do you remember the cast party?”

Newt’s expression stays dangerously neutral as he lets it hang between them. _Please, please remember._ This has to be the best and most humiliating moment of Thomas’ college career. At least he’ll have a fun story to never tell.

Finally, “I remember.”

That’s it. That’s all he gives Thomas. Did he get _more_ British since the last time they saw each other? He did move back to London for a while before coming back three years ago for his first American feature film, which is totally not a weird thing for Thomas to know.

Thomas’ lips stay parted, wanting to ask a thousand questions. Anything to break the silence.

“Hey,” Newt suddenly says. Thomas turns to see the bartender across from them, giving Newt a bored look. If he knows who he is, he clearly doesn’t care. “Could I get a, uh… Thomas, what’ll it be?”

“Oh, no thanks,” Thomas says. In a place like this, the prices must be astronomical. 

“Nonsense. It’s on me,” Newt says. “If you don’t order, I’m getting you five shots of tequila.”

“I’ll have a beer,” Thomas says, making Newt grin.

“Boring,” he says as the bartender walks away. “Maybe I should have ordered the shots.”

Thomas shakes his head. “I seem to remember you can put your liquor away better than I can now.”

Newt’s eyebrows flick quickly as he lets go of the drink he’s still nursing. “Oh, I can. A little too well.”

Well, now Thomas feels like an asshole. “Oh.”

“That’s showbiz for you,” Newt says, playing with a ring on his middle finger. “Anyway. This is a grey area.”

“What is?”

“I mean, we did go to school together,” Newt says, “but are you still a fan?”

Thomas blinks. “I-I mean, I have seen a thing or two of yours, but we lost touch after you left, and I didn’t know how to contact you again, but I didn’t—”

“Please do stop before you pop a blood vessel,” Newt says as Thomas’ beer arrives. Thank god. He pays the bartender an amount he doesn’t show Thomas. “You know, you’ve really grown into your face.”

Maybe he should have ordered something stronger. “Thanks?”

“It was a compliment,” Newt says, taking another small sip of what Thomas assumes is whiskey. 

On the other hand, Thomas takes a long swig of his beer. Here, it comes in a big glass. Weird. When he puts it down, he tries to maintain somewhat of a coolness to his tone. “In that case, so have you.”

“Really? I’m told I look too young,” Newt says, frowning. “It’s why I keep landing all those bloody teenage roles.”

It is true. He still looks quite young. But, Thomas was there when Newt was a teenager. He can spot the differences. There’s a hardened definition there now. “Not to me.”

Newt watches him take another sip of his beer. Then, “Who knows you’re here?”

Thomas’ spine goes rigid. He puts his drink down, brain going blank. “Aside from anyone in here?” he asks because he’s an idiot.

Newt nods once.

“Nobody,” Thomas lies. Minho doesn’t count, does he?

He hums. “Give me your phone.”

Does he not trust Thomas? Why should he give him his phone? What if he sees something from Minho? Why is he listening?

Newt takes his unlocked phone, tilting it away from Thomas as he fiddles with it. Thomas’ heart has seemed to vanish, along with any breathable air. 

Finally, he hands it back to Thomas, turned off. He grabs his glass of whiskey, downing the rest of it in one go. Then, he stands up. “Good catching up, then,” he says, putting a ring-adorned hand on Thomas’ shoulder. He stares into his eyes, subtly wetting his lips as Thomas hardens his jaw, trying to think of something to say. Newt must say something more. Anything. 

But, he only pats his shoulder, stalking away. Thomas watches him. The confidence in his walk, the way he buttons his blazer with only one hand as he snaps his fingers somewhere towards his left. Like magic, a burly man appears by his side, but Newt doesn’t break his stride as the door is opened for him.

Holy crap.

Thomas can still feel the weight of Newt’s hand. The hand that he’s seen on his screen so many times. In real life so many times. Even felt on his.

Suddenly, another kind of weight becomes apparent. His phone.

He scrambles to turn it on, unlocking it as fast as he can. What is he even looking—

It’s the first thing he sees when he finally gets in. His notes, open to one new one in particular that he didn’t write. It reads: **The Regent 45 West 60th. 33G. Now.**

Thomas’ eyes widen cartoonishly wide. _Holy crap._

He grabs his glass, chugging. _Now?_ As in, tonight? As in, he wants Thomas to go there? What does that mean? Maybe it’s a friendly thing. What if it wasn’t? He’s getting ahead of himself. No he isn’t. Would he even want that? 

Thomas doesn’t stop until he’s polished off his glass, but beer sadly has little to no effect on him. Newt said he remembered. Did he remember as well as Thomas does?

Maybe if Thomas was a bit smarter he’d go home and rest up to study hard tomorrow. Or, maybe, if he was dumber. Whatever it is, he gets up, determined. He’ll take the subway this time. Newt’s right by Columbus Circle, after all. The west side.

Thomas stared at his service-less phone all the way over. He can’t tell Minho. Not yet. Besides, he won’t even be around to answer. He’s lucky if he even sees him until tomorrow night. Luckier if he’s conscious before one in the afternoon. 

Columbus Circle roars with life around Thomas as he checks the location on his phone again, cars speeding through the roundabout and rich people flooding through the doors of the stores. If he’s not mistaken, it’s right down sixtieth. 

Is Newt living here now? He expected a hotel—although, it could be cheaper for him to rent while doing his show. But what if he makes it permanent? Does more work on Broadway? Not that he’d want to see Thomas regularly anyway. He’s famous. He has a whole fanbase. Thomas would know, after stalking a few fan accounts. For updates! Okay, yeah, maybe it is weird.

Finally, he arrives at a large building lined with trees at the entrance. This is it.

The lobby is gorgeous. He pays way too much as it is for his shitty two bedroom, but these places go for four, five thousand a month. That is, if you’re not buying. Newt is loaded, though. This must be nothing for him. But the concept of Thomas, a college kid who has a twenty dollar budget for food on a weekly basis, hanging out with Newt, an international star, makes his skin tight. He couldn’t want anything to do with him.

Thomas approaches the man working the elevator. “Could I go to floor thirty three?”

He narrows his eyes. “Are you visiting someone?”

“Yes, actually. I was invited,” Thomas says. Jeez. Even this guy can tell he’s an imposter. 

“What apartment?”

At least he’s keeping Newt safe. “G. He’s a friend. Buzz him if you want.”

The man takes his phone out, pointing the camera at Thomas, to which Thomas frowns. What, is he sending a photo? Finally, his phone buzzes, and Thomas peeks over as the screen flashes green.

“Alright,” he says, letting Thomas onto the elevator. Finally.

They ride in uncomfortable silence for a whopping thirty three flights. Thomas’ whole building only has five floors and no elevator. Not that he hasn’t been to luxury buildings before. He just can’t wrap his head around Newt being famous. Or Newt asking him over. 

Finally, Thomas gets up to the floor, and the man doesn’t babysit him on the way to Newt’s. It’s funny. If this were any stranger he met at the bar, he probably wouldn’t have done this out of fear of being murdered.

Thomas stands in front of Newt’s door, taking a deep breath. He hasn’t thought of a single thing to say. Maybe he’ll do the talking? He has much better stories, surely. If all else fails, Thomas can ask about the show. No, that’ll make him sound like a fan again. 

The door swings open, making Thomas flinch.

Newt stands on the other side, leaning against it. This time, he’s got on a Queen shirt, a gold chain necklace now showing. “You’ve been standing there for two minutes.”

Thomas wants whatever cat that got his tongue to kindly give it the hell back.

“Come in, then,” Newt says, turning to walk back into his apartment.

He follows like a lost puppy as Newt leads him past the kitchen to their left into the living room. It’s beautiful, with windows at the end showing the city and a couch to the right, TV to the left. 

“This is really nice,” Thomas finally says. 

Newt shrugs. “Kind of small, but I don’t mind it.”

Small? “You decorated it well,” Thomas says. There’s a painting above the couch, and a plant in the corner, and the coffee table matches—

“If I’m being honest, they showed it to me already furnished and I just took it as is,” Newt says, looking around. “I don’t have a good eye for those things.” 

“Alright, Mr. Style Icon of the Year,” Thomas says, before catching his mistake.

Newt smirks as his face goes hot. “You do realize we have stylists, right, Mr. Not a Fan?” 

“Right,” Thomas says lamely. 

Newt steps closer, and now without the distraction of a crowd, Thomas detects his distinct musk of cedarwood and mint, with just the vaguest hint of whiskey left over. He even smells rich. 

“You haven’t changed very much, you know,” Newt says, his voice somehow getting deeper. 

Newt was in this one movie where he was the leading love interest, and his character was this passionate, romantic type. He grabbed his girl by the waist and kissed her hard, pressing her against a wall, all tongue and teeth and hands. That scene is what flicks through Thomas’ mind now as he takes in Newt in front of him.

“Neither have you,” he says. Putting himself back in his sixteen year old shoes, standing at that cast party, watching Newt in all his glory, nothing much has changed. 

Newt stares him down. His eyes, now black, boring into Thomas as he trails them down his body. Then, at once, he blinks and their gazes meet again. Thomas’ whole body is stone.

“I need you to sign something.”

“I—wait, what?” Thomas asks as Newt walks away from him.

He follows Newt back out of the living room and into what appears to be his bedroom. This one is less made up. The blanket is crumpled at the bottom of his bed, there’s another TV in here, decorations pushed to the side, and his closet and hamper are open, revealing haphazard clothes strewn about outside of his hanging suits. 

“Here,” Newt says, handing him a piece of paper. “Just sign there, print there. I’ll do the rest for you.”

“Whoa, whoa,” Thomas says. “What is this?”

Newt, now looking bored with the topic, hands Thomas another piece of paper. The missing first one.

“A fucking NDA?”

“Quite literally,” Newt says. He holds out a pen, and Thomas looks at it like he’s about to sign away his soul. “Now, are you going to sign it or not?”

Should he feel cheap for this? The pit of his stomach tells him no. His brain… well, that’s not what makes him take the pen from Newt and use his TV stand to sign his stupid name. Far from it. 

When he’s done, he goes to hand the pen back. Instead, Newt takes the hand holding it and uses it to pull Thomas towards him, Thomas practically stumbling with the force of it.

Now, with an inch between them, Thomas looks at his lips. “What are we doing?”

Newt, now gruff, heat emanating from him and the energy of the room dramatically skyrocketing, takes the side of Thomas’ face in the hand not still holding his arm. 

“Finishing what we started.”

He swallows any possible reply of Thomas’ with a kiss, hot and heavy from the start. Thomas involuntarily drops the pen, his body short-circuiting before he kisses back, grabbing for Newt’s hips. 

Newt bites at Thomas’ lips, and Jesus, he’s kissing _Newt._ The actor. His high school crush. And he’s just as good as he thought he’d be. Tastes just as sweet. Feels just as perfect.

He gasps against Newt’s lips when he reaches for Thomas’ belt. 

In response, Newt stills his hands right where they are. Thomas wants to scream. “Is this alright?”

He nods too many times. “Please.”

Newt grins wickedly before pulling Thomas back in. This time, by his now unbuckled belt. Not that it relieves any of the tightness. 

This is exactly how he kissed that girl in the movie. It’s overpowering, and when Newt turns them around, walking Thomas back towards the bed, something primal takes over. He wants Newt. Now. In any way he can.

When the bed hits into the backs of Thomas’ knees, Newt all but shoves him onto it, Thomas sitting back to stare up at him. 

The light creates somewhat of a halo around Newt—a stark contrast from his expression that couldn’t be compared to any holy thing Thomas can think of. His blonde hair creates a crown of loose curls atop his head, and Thomas wants to rake his fingers through them, tugging and grabbing. 

Newt’s shirt comes off in one movement, and he reaches for the necklace, but Thomas reaches up, taking his arm.

The other boy gives him a questioning look.

“Keep it on,” Thomas says breathlessly. 

“Someone finally found their voice,” Newt says, amused.

Thomas sneaks a look at Newt’s midsection. Now, he’s been shirtless in movies before. But those abs were _not_ edited even a little. 

“I guess I have,” Thomas practically whispers.

Newt leans down, getting close to Thomas’ ear as he hears the distinct sound of another belt, Newt’s, being slid off. Leather against polyester. It’s better than music.

His warm breath hits Thomas’ neck as he speaks low, accent thick. “Let’s hear you use it, then.”


	2. NASA

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> basically, newt has a headache and everyone keeps yelling at him

He shouldn’t have done this at his place. Newt knew it was a mistake, but hey, what was he supposed to do? It’s hard, setting these things up in public. He supposes he could have asked him for _his_ address. Then, he could just slip out easily like he normally does. But he’s damned if he does and damned if he doesn’t. It’s all about what the media sees.

Thomas is still asleep, laying on his side, but not on top of Newt. Thank god. He’s not much of a cuddler.

He’s breathing softly, and it’s oddly nice to hear for now. What if he went out and left Thomas a note saying he had an interview or something? Or rehearsal? It would only be a slightly shitty thing to do. It’s not like Thomas knows him beyond last night and his films.

Thomas’ slightly squished cheek rests against his arm, and like this, he looks more like he did in high school. Of course, Newt remembers him. He didn’t at first, but once his memory was refreshed, it all came back. Thomas grew up nicely. He used to be a lot more scrawny. Hair shorter than what suited him. But, still. He had a dorky charm to him. 

So, in that way, nothing has changed. But still, it’s not like they really know each other out of two years of school together. They barely even spoke until that play. Even then, they didn’t stay in touch. Okay, maybe it’s partially Newt’s fault, but still. 

He’ll need to remind Thomas about that NDA. It always makes him feel like the world’s biggest dick, but it’s necessary. Especially for cases like these.

Newt rubs his eyes. He doesn’t want to check his phone. Vince will have a hundred different things for him to do, or Gally or Alby will be inviting him out somewhere. Or, worse—his mum. Sometimes, he wants to throw his phone into the Hudson. 

He’s starving. If he kicks Thomas out, he can make himself something. Or maybe he can go out for food. Or ask Gally or Alby if they want to meet him for breakfast.

Once Newt is awake, he’s _awake._ So, he carefully rolls over, trying not to make the bed squeak. And he doesn’t. But, that doesn’t stop Thomas from taking a sharp breath. 

Newt looks back at him as he squirms, rubbing at his eyes and blinking hard. He always wonders what goes through people’s minds in the morning when they wake up next to him. Probably the urge to tell someone they slept with a celebrity. 

“Morning,” Newt says, fighting against a wince at his sore throat. 

Thomas seems to register Newt beside him. “Morning,” he says, voice groggier than Newt’s.

Newt laughs. “Want water?”

He starts to sit up, his bare torso now exposed. “If it’s no trouble.”

This ties into the whole aftercare thing people are always on about. It’s the nice thing to do. Water must qualify, right? Besides, something about the timid way Thomas asked made Newt feel like he’d be a monster if he didn’t. “No trouble,” he repeats, reaching down to find any kind of sweatpants. He left them here somewhere.

When he finally finds them crumpled up by his nightstand, Newt slides them on, conscious of Thomas staring at him. 

“I’ll let you get dressed, then,” Newt says, preventing any questions Thomas might have wanted to ask. He’s a college student. He should know the one-night stand routine.

He slips out of the room, stopping at the bathroom before continuing on to the kitchen. It really is a cramped place, but a cozy one. He grew up in smaller apartments, so if his younger self saw this place, he’d probably think it was a mansion. 

The Brita sits on his fridge’s shelf along with the three other things he actually has in there. He was never one for cooking. Especially not now, being as busy as he is. 

Newt takes it out, then two glasses, setting them in the sink to rinse. It’s nice to feel like a functional adult sometimes. 

A door closes behind him, and he assumes it’s the bathroom. That means, soon he’ll be doing the morning-after smalltalk. Does he need to tell his therapist about drinking last night? He’ll add it to the list of annoying conversations to have today.

Newt has the glass of water ready for Thomas when he approaches him. 

“Thanks,” Thomas says meekly. 

Newt nods, taking his own and entering the living room. He’s running out of rooms to flee to. 

“Sleep well?” he asks, sitting on his couch.

Thomas sits beside him, still in his clothes from last night. “I think so, yeah,” he says, staring at Newt like he’s trying to figure out if he’s really there or not. Or, maybe, waiting for him to disappear.

“The bed’s sort of stiff, but big,” Newt says. Will this ever end?

“A lot nicer than mine, still,” Thomas says. “How long are you staying in New York?”

_This is why you don’t give hookups your address!_ “Who knows? After the show ends, I could do anything, really. I’m called to some weird places.”

Something in Thomas’ expression shifts. No—deflates. It’s in his doe eyes, and he smiles with their absence. “That sounds really cool.”

Newt hums his response. This is so uncomfortable. 

“You said you didn’t want to do that play in high school, right?” Thomas asks out of nowhere. He doesn’t wait for Newt to reply before continuing. “Did your mom make you do everything? Move? Act?”

Newt frowns, covering it with a laugh. “It’s nine in the morning.”

“Sorry,” Thomas says, shaking his head. “I was just wondering about it.”

“She didn’t _make_ me do anything,” Newt says. “We moved around a bit. She encouraged me to act. Took me to auditions and everything.”

“I know,” Thomas says. “That’s the same thing you tell the interviewers.” 

“Because it’s the truth,” Newt says. Just another person that meets Newt and assumes they know everything about him. All his deep dark secrets. Now, he doesn’t feel so bad asking what he needs to. “You know what you signed last night, right? The NDA? What it means?”

Thomas, stiffening like a board, puts his water on the coffee table. “It means I can’t tell anyone I was with you. I got it.”

“Normally it wouldn’t be that important, but I have a long history with women in the media, and it has to stay that way,” Newt says, sipping his water.

“Why? You know people are more accepting now, right? You could be with both just fine nowadays,” Thomas says. 

Newt rolls his eyes, putting his glass on the table. “Your optimism is inspiring, Tommy.”

“I’m just saying, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. People already speculate.”

“Because you’d know much better than I do,” Newt snaps. “Or my publicist, or my manager, or anyone else I deal with. Speculation is one thing. Shouting from the rooftops is another.”

Thomas stops. “Do they… keep you in the closet?”

“No, God,” Newt says, with an empty laugh. “My point is that I do things for a reason. The NDA is for a reason. And I’d appreciate if you followed it.”

Thomas is silent for a great many seconds in which he stares out the window behind Newt. If he tells, Newt can sue him, but that would probably look suspicious. That would just leave him with claiming they’ve never met. Vince yells at him for loose ends like this. 

“You’re not portrayed like that in the media,” Thomas says eventually. “Like a… well, a player.”

“No, because that would be a bad look,” Newt says. “Occasionally I’m just seen with a girl, and that tides people over for a while.”

“But there are more that people don’t see,” Thomas says. The naivety is almost too sweet for Newt to crush.

Newt takes a moment to answer. “This celebrity culture we have nowadays is designed to make you feel like you know everyone. Your favorite actor is just like you,” he finally says. “Well, it’s all bullshit. You can’t know a person until you _know_ them.”

Thomas is almost too quick with his answer. “I think you’re forgetting that I _did_ know you. Before all of this.”

This again. That handful of months in high school. “Fine, but—”

“Are you so caught up in thinking of me as a fan that you can’t stop for a moment to think I really wanted to catch up? That I wanted to get close to you six years ago? Or are you that obsessed with celebrity culture yourself that none of it crossed your mind?”

Newt is stopped in his tracks. He wasn’t expecting that from shy, little Thomas. And he definitely didn’t expect it to hurt. But why? Newt has every right to not trust him. So many years have passed, and at a point, with everything he so clearly knows about him, you become more fan than friend. Friends, in his field, are few and far between. 

“Catching up? Is that what we’re calling it nowadays?” Newt asks. “If you really wanted to talk, you sure as hell didn’t show it last night.” Thomas practically flinches in response, but something ugly and defensive has won in Newt, and he can’t stop his mouth from running. “Look, I’m sorry I don’t match up to your idea of me. But that’s all it is, I’m afraid.”

The anger in Thomas’ expression seems to bury his hurt. “No, I guess you don’t. Here I was, thinking you weren’t one of those assholes who can’t even have a conversation without thinking about the power dynamic. But thank you for proving me wrong.”

The power dynamic. It exists, doesn’t it? He could sit and pretend that he and Thomas come from the same world, but that would be irresponsible. Especially after last night. Thomas could want _anything_ from him, couldn’t he? 

“It’s not about power,” Newt says, leaning back on the couch. He stares at the black screen of the TV, his reflection looking back at him. A striking word pops into his head that he pushes away as quickly as it came. “Like I said. You don’t know me. And I don’t know _you.”_

Thomas laughs now, an unexpectedly bitter sound. “You’re too good to bother trying to, is that it?”

Newt watches him in the reflection. If he was normal, would Thomas be so hurt? What is it about fame that makes people place such a high value on celebrities’ opinions? 

“This isn’t usually how these things go, you know,” Newt says. He rolls his head to face Thomas again. “Nobody usually fights with me. Or talks to me much at all in the morning.”

“I’m starting to understand why they don’t bother,” Thomas says. He looks good for this early. His hair is disheveled, his lips are plump, and his shirt isn’t buttoned all the way. The fire in his eyes makes it for Newt, though. The set of his jaw. 

Maybe it’s a wildly inappropriate response to his insult, but Newt grabs Thomas by the shirt, pulling him forward and kissing him fiercely. He responds immediately, and Newt begins feeling for his buttons, but for some reason, he pulls back.

“What are you doing?” Thomas asks, most of his anger replaced by shock.

“I’m not sure what part has you confused,” Newt says, gripping tighter, his whole body charged with something that makes him frustrated to be wasting air on talking. 

“I just called you an asshole.”

“I heard. Anything else you can do to kill the mood?” 

Thomas searches his face, and Newt moves the hand not keeping Thomas close to his thigh. He’s so close, he can hear the hitch in Thomas’ breath as his hand slides up. Not too high. But high enough to make Thomas lick his lip, shifting in his seat.

“Shit,” Thomas mutters. 

“Finally—”

“No,” Thomas says. He exhales, shaking his head. “I-I have class in half an hour.”

Newt blinks. “Skip it.”

“For the amount I pay per credit?” 

“I’ll pay it.”

“You’re offering to pay two thousand dollars so we can have a quickie?” 

Newt considers it. “Well, when you put it like _that_.”

“I need to go,” Thomas says, standing as Newt releases him.

Ugh. Now Newt’ll have to take care of—

“Give me your phone,” Thomas says, looking down at Newt and holding out his hand. “I gave you mine.”

“I have a lot of valuable information on mine,” Newt says. Thomas has nice hands. He’d know, after last night. 

Thomas rolls his eyes. “A pencil and paper, then.”

Well, that would require getting up. So, despite everything Vince has ever told him, Newt takes his phone from his pocket and hands it to Thomas unlocked. 

“Just don’t memorize Ariana Grande’s number or something,” Newt says, bored with this whole situation by now.

“You have Ariana—” Thomas stops himself. “Whatever. I’m not.”

After a few seconds, certainly too short to have looked through all of Newt’s things, Thomas hands it back locked. Same thing Newt did to him.

“Leak my nudes?” Newt asks.

“No,” Thomas says, after glaring at him. “Sold them to the tabloids.”

Newt grins. “I’ll let my manager know.”

Thomas turns his back on him, heading toward the door, and suddenly, Newt doesn’t want him to go. Especially with the view he’s got of those dress pants. 

“When they ask, will you at least tell them I’m an excellent lover?” Newt calls after him. 

“I would,” Thomas says, not pausing. But, when he gets to the door, opening it, he finally looks back at Newt one more time. “If it weren’t for the fucking NDA.”

Newt briefly rethinks the offer to pay for Thomas’ class. “Well played.”

Thomas nods with no contempt. “I’ll see you around.” 

The moment he leaves, Newt checks his phone. It was left open on his contacts, and there’s a new one that sticks out like a sore thumb.

**Last Night’s Mistake** , it reads, and there’s a number below it. 

Well played indeed. 

Pathetic. That’s the word that popped into Newt’s head as he stared at himself, and it’s the word that comes back now as he climbs into the passenger seat of Alby’s car, fresh out of therapy. Or, rather, a forty-five minute lecture. 

“Morning,” Alby says, looking him over.

Newt grunts, leaning his head back against the headrest and closing his eyes. “Bloody headache.”

“Good night, then?” Alby asks, as Newt hears the loud ticking of the blinker.

“Nope. Dr. Paige,” Newt says. He considers. “And a good night. But a bad morning.”

“Ah,” Alby says. “You didn’t…”

“One glass. My BAC didn’t reach over point two, I swear. But Dr. Paige acted like I got shitfaced. Normal people get to drink in moderation, do they not? I’m not making this up?” Newt asks. Dr. Paige was all, _"_ _One glass is the gateway to falling into old behaviors. One glass tonight can equal two tomorrow, and then you’ll think you’re invincible, and when you start blacking out, blah blah blah.”_ He tuned out halfway through, muting his phone to put on the TV. But it was still annoying to hear in the background.

“They do. But that all depends on what you did next,” Alby says. 

“Some guy I went to high school with?”

Alby laughs amongst the chorus of honking and sirens in the distance. While it hurts his head now, Newt does love that about New York. England gets a bit too quiet. “Did you tell your therapist that?”

“Why should I?” Newt asks. 

“Because you’re—” Alby stops himself, and Newt peeks an eye open in time to see him shake his head. 

“Because I’m what?” Newt asks, sitting up.

“A bit destructive. If it’s not the drinking, it’s something else,” Alby says. He glances over at Newt, expression softening. “There’s nothing wrong with what you do, necessarily. It’s just why you do it.”

If Alby was anyone else, Newt might punch him. But, sadly, he has the softest spot for the man sitting next to him. 

They met in LA, while Newt was doing a short stint on a TV show. One that Alby starred in. This, of course, was during the height of his drinking. He didn’t make any friends on the set. Every day, he’d go in, do his job, then either go out to a club or stay in his trailer, isolated from everyone and everything. 

One night, trashed to all hell, Newt heard a knock on his trailer door. He not-so-kindly asked whoever it was to fuck off, but Alby insisted, telling Newt he needed help.

Newt had opened the door, eyes undoubtedly bloodshot, and Alby didn’t patronize him. He just walked right in past him, sat on his couch, and took out his script. Newt stopped in his tracks, and Alby looked up at him and said, “We’re reshooting this scene tomorrow, because our chemistry was off. We’re working on it now. Go make yourself a coffee and drink some water.”

Somehow, it was exactly what he needed. From there, he was stuck to Alby every day on set. They rehearsed together, and did all of their interviews as a duo. When the show was cancelled before they could get renewed, the only reason he was disappointed was because he wouldn’t get to see Alby so much anymore. Especially since he’s a New York native. So, when he got the opportunity to do this show in the city, he jumped at the chance to be around a familiar face.

“Next time, I’ll conference you in so you can yell at me together,” Newt says grumpily. 

Alby smiles. “It could be fun.”

“Oh yeah, I have a degradation kink,” Newt says, earning a grimace that makes him snicker.

“But seriously, are you alright? Has the show been too much on you?” Alby asks, focusing back on the fast paced road.

“It’s the same thing every night. Not hard. I was just bored last night,” Newt says. He thinks back to this morning. Thomas’ face when he brought up the NDA. “That guy. I might have been… less than gentlemanly to him this morning.”

“Why?” Alby asks. 

“I don’t know. He acted like he knew me,” Newt says. Out loud, it makes him sound a lot worse.

“I thought you said you knew each other in high school?”

“Yes, but that’s _high school._ So much has changed since then. Plus, the whole power dynamic thing,” Newt says, waving his hand. 

“Princes and princesses marry commoners, don’t they, London? It doesn’t matter. Unless he was a groupie,” Alby says, pulling up to an extremely tight spot. In order to drive here, you need to be a superhuman parallel parker. 

“They also get set up by people. And they don’t shag an hour after meeting, either,” Newt says, sitting up to watch Alby expertly avoid hitting the cars. Newt can’t drive. He never saw it as a necessity. But watching people drive here makes it look impossible. 

“You don’t know that. Besides, you _did_ know him,” Alby says, settling in his spot. “Maybe it would do you good to get in touch with someone outside of this life. You know. A _commoner._ It might give you a breather from everything else. Are you in touch with _anyone_ from before you became an actor?”

Newt tilts his head. “Um. I don’t think so. But I started quite young.”

“See?” Alby says, getting out of the car. Newt makes sure the road is clear before hopping out, meeting Alby on the sidewalk. “It might be exactly what you need. I say call him, apologize for being you, and strike up a friendship. _Friendship.”_

“That might be hard. He didn’t seem pleased with me this morning,” Newt says as they enter the brunch place Alby swore by. “He did give me his number before he left, though.”

All Alby has to do is nod at the hostess, and they’re being taken to the back of the restaurant, Newt rubbing his temple. “Then you’re gold,” Alby is saying. “I say invite him to the show tonight.”

Newt huffs. “Defeats the purpose of a one-night-stand, don’t you think?”

Alby flicks his other temple, making Newt flinch hard. “For someone so scrawny, you sure are thick. Be a human for once and text him.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Newt says, flashing their hostess a smile as she seats them. When she walks away, his smile drops. “I’ll draft a new NDA, then.”

Alby blinks. “You didn’t make him sign an NDA.”

Newt frowns. “You don’t make people sign one?”

Alby’s response comes in the form of a two-handed facepalm. Huh. 

Sometimes, Newt feels like he’s walking around in a sort of daze. He usually can’t predict when he’s going to go into one of those modes—they tend to sneak up on him. But the one time he’s noticed it always happens without fail is right before a show.

Not when he’s getting into character. That’s effortless. But the hustle and bustle the moment he gets there. It’s exhausting, really. Being corralled in, making his way to his dressing room. He’s not exactly friends with anyone here. Gally works next door, but he’s usually busy around showtimes. So, he’s left on his own. Sometimes he’ll get a call from Vince, which is almost worse.

So, he tries to use the time to his advantage. Turn his brain off. Except today, it’s buzzing. 

“You look nervous,” Brenda says as she does his hair. 

Newt frowns. “I’m not.”

“Is something on your mind, then?” Brenda asks.

Newt didn’t like her at first. She was friendly. That’s fine. But talkative. A bit boundary-crossing. Lately, though, he’s appreciated it more and more. “Just letting those creative juices flow.”

Brenda made a face, making Newt snicker.

“But, yeah, I think so. Not nerves. Other things. I do have a life outside of the show, you know,” Newt says.

“I’m well aware. I have one too, though I’m sure you never thought of that.”

Newt considers this. He hasn’t thought of it before, actually. “Tell me about it.”

“Well,” she starts, fluffing his hair, “I have a wife, and we live in the LES. Pun intended. We came from Ohio, so we’re considered big-shots around there now. Famous. Mostly for getting out.”

“Low—” Newt bites his tongue. Brenda quirks her eyebrow. What he was going to say was _“Low standards in Ohio,”_ but that would be mean. “Sorry, go on.”

“I’m holding a very hot object very close to your face,” Brenda says. Then, she sighs, grabbing the hairspray. “Anyway. She does costuming for different shows. We keep to ourselves, mostly. We love working on Broadway, though.”

“Did you ever want to act?”

“Never,” Brenda says. “Everyone is too… stuck up. It’s a brutal business, and you all look miserable most of the time. Plus, it feels a bit more stable in our positions.”

Newt raises his eyebrows. Being in the shadows sounds… well, it sounds unbearable. For him, at least. “I think you only get miserable if you care too much.”

Brenda laughs. “You’re new to this. I’ve been around for years. Stars come around with a need for validation they’re never gonna find here. And there’s nothing worse than someone who doesn’t care. It’s always a lie. If you ask me, you all desperately need to be humbled.”

Jeez. “You don’t think I’m humble?”

She only gives him a look in the mirror.

“Well, please, don’t spare my feelings,” Newt grumbles. “You’re like the fiftieth person today to say that, by the way. Did everyone in my life have a meeting, or something?”

“Are you saying I’m a part of your life?” Brenda asks with a gasp. “I’m honored.”

“Oh, shut up,” Newt says, grabbing his phone. 

Alby told him what he should do. And if there’s one thing he’s learned from all those lame “enlightened” singers he’s met, it’s that he shouldn’t ignore a sign. But stuffing his pride away is a whole other beast.

“Brenda?”

“Mhm?”

“Would you call a one night stand after making it clear to them that they’re a one night stand to try to be friends?”

Brenda blinks. “Well, I’m married, so I’m out of practice, but sure, why not? It depends on your intentions, I think.”

“I usually don’t have those,” Newt says. He’s more of a go-with-the-moment kind of guy.

“Just don’t be a dick,” Brenda says.

Newt can’t promise that either, so he’ll chalk it up to being on Alby if this goes badly. He’s just following guidance. He flips to his contacts, getting to the one Thomas left.

Here goes nothing.


	3. motive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thomas's studying is interrupted and newt is good at acting but bad at friendship!

Thomas slams his door behind him, making a beeline for the fridge.

“Whoa,” Minho says from their couch. “Are those last night’s clothes?”

“Yes they are,” Thomas says, grabbing the brown paper bag he got from McDonalds two days ago. It should be good still. Maybe. “Everyone else in class wore sweatpants and I looked like I was starring in The Hangover 4.”

“The hell happened?” Minho asks. 

The longer he’s been away from Newt, the more annoyed he’s gotten. What kind of arrogant jerk says things like that? First the NDA, then treating him like a fan, telling him they don’t know each other. The thought of him being right makes Thomas even angrier. Or possibly embarrassed. The two are very interconnected. 

“Nothing,” Thomas says, grabbing a beer of Minho’s for good measure and sitting beside him on the couch. 

“Nuh-uh. Have you even been back here since last night?” Minho asks.

Thomas doesn’t meet his eyes, instead focusing on opening his beer.

“You got _laid!”_ Minho yells, slapping Thomas’ shoulder.

“Say it a little louder, I don’t think the grandma that lives on the first floor could hear,” Thomas says, wincing. 

“Who was it? How was it? Were you safe? Was she hot?” Minho asks. “Unless it was Newt,” he adds in a joking tone.

Thomas wants to tell him. So badly. He’s his best friend. Best friends don’t count, do they? Then again, if this got out, he can’t afford that lawsuit. “It was some girl at the bar.”

Minho grins. “Did she finally remove the massive stick up your ass?”

He has no idea. Thomas swallows the many jokes he can make in response, shaking his head. “She was nice. I don’t think I’ll be seeing her again, though.”

“Eh, sometimes that’s the magic of it,” Minho says. “Anyway, did you talk to Newt?”

Was this included in the NDA? Probably not, right? “For a minute, yeah. He remembered me, for the record. So we talked until he had to go.”

Minho looks blown away. “You had some night then. I bet you picked that girl up by saying you knew Newt. I’ll remember that.”

“Whatever you want to do,” Thomas says, popping a frozen solid chicken nugget in his mouth. It tastes like rubber, and Thomas washes the feeling away with another sip of beer. “You went home with a girl too, didn’t you?”

“Well, yeah, but that’s normal for me,” Minho says, shrugging.

Thomas needs a nice, long nap. Instead, he’ll have to shower and study. “Wanna go to the library?” It’s the only place he trusts himself not to fall asleep. He’s only done that three or four times. 

“Nope,” Minho says. He sighs. “But I don’t have a choice, do I?”

“Nope,” Thomas says, standing up. “Meet you back out here in twenty?”

Minho responds with a nod, and Thomas heads for the bathroom. In there, he strips off his shirt to find a red mark on his collar bone. One given to him by none other than Newt.

As he steps into the shower, he can’t help but think back to last night. He hasn’t exactly gotten a quiet moment to reflect. Newt, as much of a bitch as he was this morning… wow. Thomas doesn’t need to try hard to get that feeling back. Newt’s hands all over him. It felt safe somehow, and Thomas couldn’t think of anything but him. Everything was pure bliss and redhot, and he knew _exactly_ what to do, and maybe Thomas should stop thinking about this now.

He breathes in the steam from the shower, trying to get the image of Newt’s necklace in his face out of his head. Or the feeling of his rings pressing into Thomas’ sides. 

Moral of the story, Newt probably won’t be using Thomas’ number. They do come from different worlds, as much as Thomas hates to admit it. But, if he ever did happen to call and ask for another night like that… Thomas would have a hard time declining.

After Thomas’ shower, he and Minho head to the library, backpacks and Five Hour Energies in tow. They hide them in their pockets, considering the no food or drink policy. Minho always tells the security guards that it’s a rip-off.

It’s cramped in here due to midterms, whereas a month ago it was likely a ghost town. But, they manage to snag the end of a table and begin setting up their things.

Unfortunately, though, they’ve always been a bit too… goofy for things like libraries. 

Minho wiggles his eyebrows at Thomas when he catches his eyes and Thomas bites back a grin. Then, Minho pushes his chair forward, a loud squeak resounding through the room. That, effectively, makes them lose their shit.

From there, Minho continues to make a series of micro-loud noises, until finally, they both have their books and laptops out. Minho tunes everyone out with headphones, but Thomas doesn’t do well with musical distraction, so he tries to focus as much as he can on this stupid work. 

In fact, he’s able to focus for nearly two hours. He’s doing really well. Maybe he won’t tank these midterms after all.

That is, until he hears his phone buzz. Minho looks down at it and smiles at the disruptive sound, but Thomas grabs it quickly. He’s in the zone right now, he can’t let anyone interrupt him.

So, he goes to turn it off. Then, he reads the text.

**Unknown: ever seen a broadway play?**

Thomas dials the number, muttering curses under his breath as he bounces to warm himself.

Then, finally, an answer. “You do know I’m about to go on, right? As in, no phones?”

“You do know I actually need a fucking _way in?”_ Thomas hisses back.

There’s a momentary silence. “Ha. Right. Just... go to the stage door. I’ll come get you.”

Thomas rolls his eyes when he hears the line go dead, making his way over to the already-crowded stage door. The amount of teenage girls here makes it seem like Harry Styles is in there. They’re all on their phones right now, probably freezing in the outfits they’ve chosen. He has to admire them for it.

He finds a spot as close to the front as he can get, crossing his arms. The security guard behind the barricade meets his eyes for a moment, and Thomas tries to convey the fact that he is _not a fan_ with his look, but he probably just looks more like he’s turning to a block of ice.

He is different from these girls, right? Some of them probably idolize Newt. People do. Thomas has seen it first-hand. On Twitter, especially. They have accounts dedicated to him, yearning for him or wanting to be his friend at the very least. How do they perceive him? What do they think that would be like? 

Finally, the door opens, and it’s a very annoyed looking woman with dark hair. “Thomas?” she yells.

Thomas steps forward. “Uh,” he says, all eyes on him now. “That’s me.”

She steps back into the entrance for a moment, and then comes back out, addressing the security guard. “Alright, yeah, let him in.”

They move the gate to the side, letting Thomas through, and he awkwardly walks through the door the girl is holding for him. She shuts it quickly, and as she does, Thomas finds Newt in front of him, in full stage makeup and costume.

“My bad,” he says, before turning to the girl. “Thanks, Brenda.”

“Whatever,” Brenda says, nudging past him.

Thomas frowns, so Newt shrugs. “She gets panicky at showtime. Anyway. I’ll get you into the theater. I don’t think we’re sold out tonight.”

“They should let in one of those girls from outside,” Thomas says, nodding his head towards the door as Newt starts leading him down the hallway. 

He laughs. “Doesn’t quite work that way.”

They don’t walk side-by-side. Newt cuts through the narrow halls like it doesn’t matter if Thomas is trailing him or not. People come down the other sides with costumes, or headsets, or whatever else.

“I’ve never seen a Broadway play,” Thomas says, taking in the memorabilia on the walls. Playbills, signatures, fliers, etc.

“Good,” Newt says, taking what feels like the twentieth right turn. “If we’re terrible, you’ll have nothing to compare it to.”

Finally, they arrive at a door, and Newt opens it ever so slightly. 

“Hey,” he whispers. A man appears on the other side through the crack. “Let a friend of mine in? There are seats, yeah?”

And just like that, Newt opens the door fully, hiding behind it. 

“Um. Break a leg, I guess,” Thomas says.

Newt nods. “Might make the play more interesting.”

Thomas is escorted to the fifth row, guilt filling his gut as he lands the great spot. Guilt because, first of all, he didn’t pay, and other people deserve to be here more. But also, he ditched Minho. The lie, which isn’t entirely a lie, he came up with got him off the hook easily—last night’s fling wanted to meet back up—but he still feels bad. Especially since he still has studying to do.

Since this morning, he has no idea how to feel about Newt. He was such a jerk, it makes Thomas’ blood boil when he thinks about it. Well, he never implied it was anything but a one-night-stand, but still treating Thomas like some crazed fan? And now inviting him here? What’s his game?

Thomas goes to check his phone, but the older couple to his right glare at him, so he shoves it back in his pocket. Maybe this play will be good. If it’s not, he can go over his notes for his final in his head.

Finally, the lights go down, there’s an overhead announcement, and the show starts—holy crap, is that William H. Macy? 

Very shortly after the start, the lights come up on another part of the stage and there’s Newt, stance and expression completely different from how he seemed minutes ago, even in the same costuming. He smiles as he starts his lines, reminiscing about something with his dad, and, alright, he’s gorgeous. 

He has an American accent in this, and he seems to have really improved from that one TV show he did a while back. It’s flawless, like Thomas is really watching another person up there. He seems taller. Untouchable. But Thomas can place the feeling of his hands far too easily. 

The plot slips Thomas’ mind awfully quick, and any time Newt isn’t onstage, all Thomas can think of is how he looked moments before. His costumes are a sight, too. A blue suit that he takes the jacket off of at a point, his lanky, lean stature showing itself off. Thomas’ personal favorite is the look with the tank top and pajama pants, exposed arms and neck. Had he left marks the night before? Did his makeup artist have to cover it? How often does that happen?

Suddenly, Thomas is mad again. Obviously he can’t police what Newt does, and especially not what he’s done in the past. But it’s not about that. Thomas doesn’t have to be sucked into his little playboy lifestyle. Which begs the question: why is he here? Did Newt take what he said earlier to heart?

Intermission comes and goes, and Thomas is still lost in thought, unable to calm his nerves. It’s hard to believe Newt is right in front of him. With the barrier of the stage, he might as well be watching the TV. The actors are all so talented, too. He doesn’t know much about this play—even while watching—but he can tell nobody has flubbed, and if they have, they’re pros at hiding it.

The greatest moment for showcasing Newt’s talent is when his character, Biff, gets into an argument with Willy, Biff’s father and the aforementioned salesman. His face gets red, veins popping out, screaming at him until he breaks down in sobs. It’s so… raw. Vulnerable. 

When the play ends, they come back out, doing their bows, and even with William H. Macy being the star, Thomas notices the loudest cheers are for Newt. Maybe some of those fans are in here after all.

Now, Thomas doesn’t know what to do. Leave? What was this invite for, anyway? Just to see the show? Every second that goes by after the actors leave the stage, Thomas fills with more annoyance. If this was just some pity invite for being a jerk this morning, and he didn’t even plan on _talking_ — 

“Hey, you.”

Thomas looks up to find the same security guard that escorted him to his seat. “Yeah?”

“Come on.”

Thomas gets up, worried he somehow forgot Thomas is supposed to be there before he brings him to the same door from before. But then, he leaves him. Alone, inside this maze of halls, no direction. 

He sighs from somewhere deep in his soul. Lovely.

Thomas starts down the hall, trying to act like he belongs, guessing what turns he has to make. After two lefts, he hears a voice he recognizes as William H. Macy’s, flanked by other people, and for some reason, it makes him panic, as if he has a call sheet and would pick out Thomas as out of place.

So, naturally, he books it down a different hall. Or, he tries, anyway. The moment his feet start running, he clashes into a body.

He stops, horrified, grabbing the girl in front of him to steady either her or himself. It’s the girl from before, and wow, if looks could kill.

“I am… so sorry,” Thomas says, wide-eyed.

Brenda glares. “Get out of the way.”

“Yes, of course,” Thomas says, stepping aside. Then, he remembers that that’s stupid. “Oh, wait!”

She turns back, and Thomas regrets it. “What?”

“I, uh,” he starts sheepishly. “Newt invited me then kinda didn’t tell me what to do and now I’m lost. Do you know where he is? Sorry.”

Brenda sighs. “Follow me.”

Just like with Newt before, she doesn’t wait for Thomas’ agreement before leading him down the hall. Yet another person that believes Thomas is beneath them. This industry is spectacular.

Finally, they arrive at a room and Brenda pushes the door open to reveal Newt, stripped down to his boxers and grabbing a pair of dress pants from a hanger. Thomas looks at the floor immediately, begging his face not to go pink.

“And you bagged the suit correctly this time?”

“I’m not an idiot,” Newt says.

Thomas looks back up in time to see Newt zip up his pants as Brenda unzips the bag containing his suit. “Did you seriously put the _shirt in here too?”_

Newt shrugs. “It won’t wrinkle that quick.”

There’s a tense silence that Thomas purely believes will be brought to an end by Brenda strangling Newt. Instead, she takes a deep breath. “If I look at you for one more second, I’ll get violent, so if you’ll excuse me.”

She turns to leave, but Thomas stops her again. “I could hang it? Do I just leave it here on the rack?”

Brenda surveys him, eyebrows knit. “Yeah.”

Thomas takes it from her, and without a thank you, she leaves. But he guesses the lack of yelling is gratitude in itself. “Wow,” he says under his breath.

“Tell me about it,” Newt says, grabbing a knit deep green top from his bag. “Bloody freezing in here.”

“Yeah,” Thomas says, watching him pull the top over his head. 

When Newt grabs the wipes on the counter and starts scrubbing at his face, Thomas takes it as his moment to start re-hanging the suit. He puts it on the rack, taking each part at a time, the gray floor hard under his feet, and internationally known celebrity to his left, staring at himself in the mirror to make sure all of the makeup is gone.

They catch each other’s eyes like that, and Thomas wonders what the hell he’s doing. Newt’s a grown man, he can hang his own suit.

“You’re good at that,” Newt says, nodding to it. “Maybe you can work on Broadway. Costuming.”

“Or, I just have basic folding skills. You know, like any functioning adult,” Thomas says, finally zipping up the bag. He buttons two buttons on the white dress shirt, then he’s done, turning to an impressed Newt, who’s now sitting on the counter.

“I could do it, theoretically. I’m just lazy.”

Thomas nods shortly. “Good show, by the way.”

“Was it?” Newt asks. Thomas isn’t here to stroke his ego.

“Newt?”

“Mm?”

“Why am I here?”

Newt’s expression doesn’t even get contemplative. He watches Thomas like he hasn’t spoken yet, arms crossed, face slightly rosy from scrubbing it. “You wanted to be friends, didn’t you?”

That actually catches Thomas off guard. “I—um. Yeah, I did.”

“Then that’s why,” Newt says, like Thomas should have put that together himself.

“I had to lie to my best friend about where I went because of an NDA you made me sign. You invited me here, barely even said hello to me, then didn’t tell me what to do, and now…” Thomas trails off, infuriated with how unchanging his expression is. “That’s not how normal friendships go.”

“So, you’re saying you can’t be friends with me because we come from worlds that are too different?” Newt asks, cocking his head.

Thomas freezes. “That’s your game?” he asks. “Seriously? You brought me here to show me that you’re too famous to be friends with me?”

“I don’t have a game. I’m just showing you how it is. If you don’t like it, that’s your decision,” Newt says, shrugging. 

Thomas groans, just short of a growl. “You’re telling me you have no friendships? You don’t talk with anyone over coffee, or watch TV with anyone, or call them just to talk? It’s all fleeting moments at shows, or red carpets, or running lines? Is that what human connection is to you?”

Another shrug. “Depends on the friendship.”

Now, arguing about being friends with someone is about as childish as it gets. But right now, Thomas is so annoyed, he pushes the thought away. “Why are you so fucking stubborn? _You_ invited me here! Is it so hard to talk like people?”

Newt takes Thomas’ yelling like he’s talking about the weather. How is he so unphased? “Then let's talk.”

“After that?” Thomas asks.

“I can’t win with you, can I?”

Thomas puts his face in his hands. Maybe Newt is right. Maybe they are just too different. Maybe Newt is really just the biggest asswipe on the face of the planet, no matter how pretty or talented he may be. “Whatever. Whatever!” he says, dropping his hands. Except now, Newt is standing. Closer, too. That boy must move like a cat.

“Did you go to class today?”

Definitely the last question Thomas was expecting. “Yeah, I did.”

“Was it good?” Newt asks, clearly never having been to a day of college.

“I guess. I was a bit distracted,” Thomas says, earning a twitch of a smile. “Then I went to the library with my roommate to study, and I got distracted there, too.”

“Why?” Newt asks. He smells good. His cologne must cost more than Thomas’ rent.

Thomas swallows. “I was trying to figure out how to get here.”

“Sorry about that, then,” Newt says, obviously insincerely. God, now with the contrast of the American accent, his real one seems so thick. “Next time, I’ll give you proper warning.”

“Good to know,” Thomas says, his eyes involuntarily flicking to Newt’s lips. Then, he notices that his ear piercing isn’t in. His hair is still all styled like Biff’s, and it brings him back to the night of _their_ show. Thomas thought he looked so beautiful. “H-How was your day?”

Newt looks up, contemplative. “Hm. Got yelled at. Got yelled at again. Got yelled at yet again over breakfast with a friend. Came here. Got yelled at by Brenda. Did a show. Got yelled at by you and Brenda for a second time.”

“I can’t help but sense a pattern,” Thomas says.

Newt meets his eyes again, this time with that lightly amused but darkly intense stare. “Me.”

Thomas swallows hard. 

“You know, my _friend_ told me to apologize to you for being me,” Newt says, stepping even closer yet.

“You talked about me?” Thomas asks, before quickly covering it with, “Doesn’t that go against the NDA?”

“Not unless I signed one I forgot about,” Newt says, hands in his pockets. 

“So, if I’m going to be your friend, I’ll have to keep it secret?”

“Friend?” Newt asks. “No. You don’t have to keep that secret.”

Thomas’ mouth is so dry, he’s afraid to speak. “Just last night.”

Newt doesn’t answer immediately, because he’s evil. His eye contact is so much, and Thomas is glad when he looks away, but less glad when he realizes he’s doing it for the purpose of looking Thomas over. He didn’t get much prep time, and he must look a mess after his long day. But then, those brown eyes are back on his. 

“Let’s just see how this goes,” he finally says, his lips subtly pouting at the end of his sentence, accentuating it. 

“So… friends,” Thomas says weakly.

Newt steps away from him, shattering the moment. Thomas blinks himself back into reality as Newt grabs a bag from the floor. “Friends,” he says, putting it over his shoulder. “I can give you a ride back to your place, if you want.”

Thomas does _not_ want Newt to see where he lives. But he wants to pay for a cab significantly less. “Um. Alright.”

“There’s a back exit so we can avoid the stage door,” Newt says, nodding towards the door.

“Wait,” Thomas says, “why don’t you go out that way? They’ve been waiting for hours. It would literally make their lives if you just went out to say hi.”

Newt’s eyes widen, like this is a brand new concept. “It’s quite a lot, going out there. A lot of expectations.”

“Oh, cry me a river,” Thomas says. “You chose that when you went to your first audition. At least go out and thank them for coming.”

Newt sighs overdramatically. “I’ll call the car.”

The car, apparently at Newt’s disposal, is called, and they make their way towards the stage door. Thomas feels good about himself. If those fans couldn’t be inside, at least he’s done something good for them. 

“Some of them don’t even care about me, you know. They just like to collect photos of celebrities like we’re zoo animals,” Newt grumbles.

“Yeah, whatever. I’ve seen the people that really love you. You owe them this,” Thomas says, pushing him forward as he drags his feet.

When they finally get to the door, Newt looks back at him. “Come out, just stay behind me. When the car comes, we’ll go.”

“They won’t question who I am, right?”

“Maybe,” Newt says, opening the door. “But luckily, you’re just a friend.”

Newt leaves Thomas with that, freezing him to the chest before the cold outside even gets the chance. The crowd has easily quadrupled since Thomas was out here last, and right away, the flashing of cameras and shouting starts.

Newt takes it in stride, putting on a smile and waving. He starts from the left, spending a moment at each person. He hears him say the occasional thing too, when he’s not smiling for a photo. “Did you see the show?” “Thank you for coming.” “Where are you from?” “Have a good night, now.”

As much as Thomas hates to admit it, it _is_ a tad overwhelming. Newt should be grateful, obviously, and he shouldn’t complain about meeting the people that got him here, but still, it’s a lot at once. How must it feel to be at the center of it? 

Despite complaining, Newt is a pro. He jumps from person to person, even when the car arrives, pulling up to the curb, the lights from the marquee bouncing off the side. Newt talks, laughs, puts on a gracious attitude, and Thomas can see why they adore him so much.

He was right. They don’t know him.

And neither does Thomas.

After a solid ten minutes of standing in the cold, Newt waves Thomas over, the security guard clearing a path for them to leave. Newt does one last big wave to the crowd, thanking them, throwing a wink or two around, and then they’re shepperheded into the back of the Escalade. 

Newt sighs as the door closes behind Thomas, sliding all the way over on the back bench and resting his head against the seat. 

“Was that so bad?” Thomas asks as the driver pulls away.

“I never said it would be,” Newt says, an odd sort of blankness coming over him, like all his energy has been sucked out.

“They love you,” Thomas says. “You really made them happy just now. You know how many of those kids are gonna be thinking about that for years?”

“Speaking from experience, Tommy?” Newt asks, cocking an eyebrow.

Thomas glares. “I’m just observing.”

Newt looks out the window. “Maybe you should have been the famous one.”

Now what does he mean by _that?_ “I’m just saying. You did a good thing. It was a compliment. I’m sure you’re used to those.”

“You’d be surprised. It’s a tough business. Lots of divas,” Newt says, almost deadpan.

“I thought casts get close? The whole ‘we’re like family’ thing.”

“Ha,” Newt says, still glued to the lights going by. “Not in my experience, but sometimes, yes. I’ve heard true stories.”

Thomas decides to look out, too. It’s beautiful by Broadway, in a touristy sort of way. The lights at night never really get old to Thomas. Times Square especially. Not the place itself, but the huge billboards and lights that almost give it the illusion of daytime when it’s dark out. 

“Have you ever gotten close with cast members?”

“I have, actually, believe it or not,” Newt says. “Same friend that yelled at me at breakfast and told me to apologize to you. Alby.”

Thomas tries not to think about the fact that _Alby_ is aware of his existence. “You’re real friends?”

“Met on set, been friends since. Gally, too, if you know him. He’s here right now doing a show. Well, he’s usually here, but he hops between Broadway and West End.”

“Is that it?” Thomas asks, furrowing his eyebrows.

Newt laughs, turning to him. “Is that not enough for you?”

“No, it just…” How does Newt, someone so universally loved, have two friends? 

“I have plenty of acquaintances. Friends I only see from time to time. But Alby and Gally are true friends of mine,” Newt says. “And before you ask what Alby’s like, he’s one of the rare cases where he’s exactly how you think he is. Maybe even nicer.”

“Are you guys…?”

He winks at Thomas, and Thomas’ stomach inexplicably sinks.

“Oh, wow, did you actually believe me?” Newt asks. “Alby’s straight. And even if he wasn’t, I don’t think he’d touch me with a ten-foot sterilized pole.”

Thomas grimaces. “What does he know that I don’t, then?”

“Everything,” Newt says. “More than my therapist.”

For some reason, hearing that Newt goes to therapy softens something in Thomas’ chest. He doesn’t seem to be the type to go for kicks. Maybe this whole thing takes more of a toll on him than Thomas realized. “I’m the same way with my best friend. My roommate, Minho. He’s pan, but I think we’d rather be with each other’s moms.”

That earns a true laugh from Newt. “Alright, well, I don’t know about _that.”_

“How is your mom, by the way?” Thomas asks.

Like a switch, Newt’s laughter is gone. “Oh, you know. There,” he says. “I could call her, if you want. Add another person to the list of everyone who’s yelled at me today.”

Newt thanks his mother in every speech. He’s always saying how she sacrificed everything for him, and he wouldn’t be where he is without her support. “Yikes,” Thomas says. “She always seemed so…”

“So what?” Newt asks. “Nice?”

“I don’t want to offend you or anything,” Thomas says. “But I thought she was overbearing.”

“There’s a word for it,” Newt says. Just this morning he was yelling at Thomas for saying basically the same thing. 

“Oh, so now you’re agreeing with me?” Thomas asks, amused.

“Now that we’re friends and all,” Newt says, smiling with fake innocence. 

“Reluctantly, on your part.”

“Well, asking someone to be friends hours after offering to pay their tuition in order to have sex didn’t seem like the easiest task,” Newt says, making Thomas seriously question the integrity of the divider between them and the driver. But he’s probably also under contract.

He swallows hard. No matter how much of a dick Newt was this morning, part of Thomas wanted to stay. The same part of him that turns the small of his stomach hot at the mention of it. “Not exactly the friendliest thing,” he manages.

“Mm,” Newt agrees. Then, he looks at Thomas, slumped down slightly in his seat, hand on his lap with his legs slightly spread. He’s been in this position for a few minutes now, but it especially jumps out to Thomas while he’s trying desperately not to pay it any mind. “Though, it does make me wonder why you came tonight in the first place.”

Thomas’ heart and blood pump loud in his ears, and he forces himself to keep eye contact. 

“Where am I taking you?” Newt asks suddenly, but a new tone lacing his voice. 

“Lower, uh, lower east side. First between first and second ave,” Thomas says, making it sound as casual as possible.

Newt leans forward and lowers the divider. “First between first and second.”

The driver lets out a sigh. They’re on fifty seventh, so Thomas doesn’t blame him. “Thirty minutes.”

Newt raises the divider again. “Oh, and do you want a million dollar raise?”

Thomas frowns. “Huh?”

“Just testing if he can hear,” Newt says. “Clearly not.”

“Oh.”

“You’re red.”

“What?”

“Your face,” Newt says. How noticeable can it possibly be in this low lighting?

“I’m warm,” Thomas says lamely.

“It’s thirty degrees.”

“Fine, then I’m cold.”

Newt goes back to staring, and Thomas fights to keep from squirming in his seat. The space is so enclosed. Thirty minutes is a long time.

“So, we were discussing my mummy issues?” Newt finally says with a huff. “You were wrong, by the way. She didn’t _make_ me do anything. She just treats me like a child still.”

Thomas repositions himself, looking at the headrest of the seat in front of him. No, that’s weird. But he can’t look at Newt. “You seem to have a lot of freedom, though.”

“I do,” Newt says, after a pause.

“Then what does she do?” 

Newt shakes his head. “Nothing. Just being a typical brat.”

“I thought that,” Thomas says. Newt shoots him a look. “In high school, at least. Not so much now.”

“I thought I was a dick?” Newt asks.

“You are,” Thomas says, a smile creeping onto his lips before he can stop it. “But a little less than this morning.”

“Hate to break it to you,” Newt says, “but nothing much has changed.”

What does _that_ mean? Does he still want to… No. _No._ “We _are_ friends now, aren’t we?”

“Right,” Newt says.

“Right.”

Thomas suddenly doesn’t know what to do with his hands. This is weird. Being in the back of this car with a celebrity—Newt was right. It isn’t normal. He’s not normal. But the last thing Thomas will do is tell him that.

“I showed up to class late today in dress pants and no jacket and tripped on the stairs on the way in,” Thomas blurts out.

Newt laughs. “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? According to the movies, anyway.”

“Not if you want to pass,” Thomas says.

“Why would that fail you?”

“Because I kept falling asleep during the lecture.”

He laughs again, and from there, he has questions. They sound like small-talk, but from him, it seems different. What classes does Thomas take? When is he supposed to graduate? What does he want to do after? Is college like the movies?

“Do you want to go to college?” Thomas eventually asks.

“Me?” Newt asks, like it was blasphemous to even suggest. “No. Too late for that now.”

“I don’t think so,” Thomas says. “I have people over thirty in my classes.”

“No thanks,” Newt says. “I wasn’t ever a good student anyway.”

“But the experience seems fun,” Thomas says. It’s not a question, and Newt seems to understand that. 

He nods so subtly, it’s almost like he didn’t want Thomas to see. 

“It’s wildly romanticized in the movies, just so you know,” Thomas says.

Newt smiles, and it feels like an accomplishment. “Most things are.”

They continue to talk until the car comes to a stop, and the divider comes down. “Here.”

If the driver wouldn’t want to kill him and Thomas didn’t have midterms, he’d ask to stay. Go back with Newt. Instead, he turns to Newt, trying to read his expression. 

“Thank you for inviting me tonight,” he says.

Newt nods. “Night, mate.”

Thomas nods back. “Night.”

He doesn’t breathe until he’s inside his building, not once looking back. Then, finally, door locked securely behind him, he exhales, long and deep. 

He’s Newt’s friend. Nothing more.


	4. fake smile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> newt has a PR-packed day, and thomas enjoys his proxy-fame

“What?” Newt asks groggily into his phone.

“Where the fuck are you?”

Newt frowns. “In bed?”

“I can’t help but notice that that is very much  _ not  _ Good Morning America,” Vince growls.

The pit of Newt’s stomach sinks. “Fuck.”

“Your car has been outside for a  _ half hour.  _ We can make you decent when you get here. Get your ass downstairs  _ now.”  _

Newt sits up, rubbing his eyes, begging the sleep in his bones to give in to the adrenaline. Or anxiety. He can’t tell the difference between the two anymore. 

Without a goodbye, he hangs up on Vince, figuring he’s not doing him any good by yelling some more. Then, he rolls out of bed, shuffling to the toilet. When he gets there, he stops to look in the mirror.

He smiles, eyes half closed. Not very convincing. He rubs his eyes, yawning, then blinking hard. Then, he tries again. 

Do his eyes look that dead to anyone else, or is he just bad at smiling at himself? He’ll see it in photos, too. Interviews. But maybe they see something he doesn’t.

After doing his business and brushing his teeth, Newt trudges back to his room, picking out a patterned Burberry shirt and brown Gucci trousers, and pairing them with go-to black shoes. Dressing up is one of the things he enjoys most. Alby hates it. That’s why Newt likes to shop for him.

Finally, he runs to the elevator, checking the time. He’s  _ really  _ late. They’re going to have to switch segments around if his driver doesn’t break some laws. 

He’s rushed to his car, hood of his jacket up. Somehow, this place hasn’t been burned yet. Newt read the speculations about where he might choose to stay, and purposefully went outside of it. The popular theories now are Tribeca, SoHo, Midtown, or a house upstate. But any day now, they’ll figure him out, and it’ll be harder to sneak people over.

Instead of putting on his seatbelt, Newt lays across the back bench, pulling out his phone. No texts from anyone he wants to hear from. Not Alby, not Gally, not even Thomas. Not that he’d have the energy to reply, anyway.

He closes his eyes until he’s being told that they’ve arrived, and then he regrets the light nap, trying hard to wake himself up. Luckily, the studios have a garage, so he won’t be seen until they’re on air. 

Luckily, Vince is outside of the door, ready to drag Newt by the ear into the studio. Newt loves him, but he’s worse than his mother in some ways.

“It has been  _ chaos  _ here,” Vince says as they weave through the halls. “They’re going to hate you. Do you know what that means?”

Newt sighs. “They won’t hate me.”

“They already do,” Vince says, dragging him into hair and makeup.

Newt sits in his chair, smiling at the extremely angry looking lady getting her brushes ready. “I’m really sorry I’m late. Do you have dogs?”

The makeup lady narrows her eyes, dipping into the bronzer. “Yes?”

“Mine wouldn’t stop throwing up. I stayed up with her all night, trying to figure out what was wrong. Even got an emergency vet over. You know what it was?”

“What?” she asks, sympathy now creeping in.

“She was scared of the neighbors! They were putting together all this furniture into the wee hours and I guess the pitch of the drills set her off. So, I dropped her off with a friend. But I was worried sick,” Newt says, adding a dramatic huff. “Anyway. I must look terrible. I hate to make your job harder.”

The makeup lady gives into a smile now, plugging in a hair-dryer. “You look fine.”

When the whirr starts and she sets in, Newt catches Vince’s half-amazed, half-angry gaze in the mirror. “They won’t,” Newt says plainly. 

After hair and makeup, Newt gives the same fake story to the hosts, and they pout, asking him to make it part of his interview. Then, he pays a couple of PAs—with a very generous tip—to get coffee, and by the time Newt’s segment is up, everyone on the set is caffeinated and balance is restored.

The lights have become cold over the years. When they come up, shining on him, baking his face and making his clothes feel more like a costume, his smile comes up on cue. 

He’s introduced, and then the camera is on him, and he relaxes. “It’s really great to be here,” he says.

“You showed up a bit late today,” the lady says. Newt really should have learned her name.

“I did,” Newt says shamefully. 

“But it was for quite the reason.”

Newt laughs, launching into his story. It shouldn’t shock Vince so much that he’s a good actor. It’s quite literally his job.

After a few questions about the play and being in New York, Newt thanks the hosts and the crew graciously, being sure to shake every hand. Then finally, he’s free, heading back to his car.

“See? I handled it perfectly. No enemies made.”

“Sure,” Vince says. “And now, we need to get you a dog.”

Newt’s smugness is cut short. “Shit.”

The next time Newt is bothered by Vince, it’s only hours later. His phone rings while he looks through a site displaying rescue dogs, and he puts it on speaker. “What?” he asks. His usual greeting.

“You’re going to dinner in an hour,” Vince says, the sounds of traffic muffling him.

“What? Where?” Newt asks.

“With Teresa Agnes, at Eleven Madison Park.”

Newt takes a deep breath to keep from yelling. “I fucking hate that place.”

“Well, too bad.”

“They give you scraps of food and charge you a thousand for it.”

“Once again, too bad.”

“Why am I doing this? Today's my day off. I thought I was supposed to relax during those.”

“Because trust me, that’s why,” Vince says. “Your reservation is at seven. Just show up and don’t be a douchebag.”

Newt picks at the material of the fuzzy pillow on his couch. “Vince?”

“What?”

“Is this… a date?”

There’s a momentary silence, and Newt hardens his jaw. 

“I hate doing this to you, kid. You gotta know that,” Vince finally says. “It’s whatever you want it to be. We just need you seen together.”

Newt takes a labored breath, cursing his chest for hurting so badly. It’s his whole body, actually. His limbs get cold, and his temples are starting to hurt from clenching his teeth.

Vince cares about him like a father. He does what's best for him.

“I’m looking out for you,” he says, as if reading Newt’s mind.

Newt hangs up, knowing Vince knows he’ll do what’s been asked of him. This is the life, and this is the price he’ll pay to live it. 

“I’ll have whatever rum you want to give me. A triple,” Newt says, smiling up at the waiter. 

“I’ll have the Rose de Maceration,” Teresa says, giving a polite nod. She’s in a sleek black dress with a ribbon that ties over her shoulder, hair swept to one side and red lipstick making her eyes pop. 

They worked on something together, once. They hardly had any scenes with each other’s characters, and only really saw each other at the table read and around the set, but the public assumes they know one another well.

When the waiter walks away, Newt goes to start in on the small-talk. Instead, Teresa speaks.

“I don’t know why they chose this place,” she says. “I always walk out hungrier than when I walked in.”

Suddenly, Newt’s smile turns into bemusement. “You hate it too?”

“Oh, of course I do,” Teresa says. “I could pay an eighth somewhere else and get eight times the amount of food. It’d probably taste better, too.”

Newt laughs, and he’s not sure if it’s at her, or purely out of relief. 

“You know what I like to do?” Teresa asks, leaning in closer from across the table. “I tie a scarf all the way up to my mouth, put on a coat with a hood, no makeup, and I go to diners. I’m not recognized that often.”

Newt nods. “I go with the classic. Hat and sunglasses.”

“Does it work?”

“Not really,” Newt says. He’s able to sit back now, the tension easing. Now, he regrets getting a drink. 

Teresa laughs. “You’re very recognizable. The earring might hurt your cause.”

“Getting recognized isn’t so bad. But we make it easy at places like this,” Newt says, looking up at the high ceilings. It looks more like a hotel lobby than a restaurant. 

“I think that’s maybe the point,” Teresa says. So maybe she  _ does  _ know the deal? Maybe she’s just as uninterested as he is.

“Bloody annoying, how much they want to involve others in our business,” Newt says. “I don’t personally mind the fans. But what do I care what they say about what I’m doing? Who does that effect? It’s the tabloids that bother me.”

“I get that,” Teresa says. “They always think I’m up to something. My fans are just happy watching my Instagram stories. I try to be as open as I can.”

“I think that’s a good thing. Gives them less of a chance to make something up. Like an alibi,” Newt says. “Speaking of, will I be on one of your stories?”

Teresa chuckles as they bring over the first course. A long piece of lettuce with something orange drizzled over it and a piece of something that looks like fish that’s about the size and shape of a coin. 

“Would you like to be?”

Someone else brings over their drinks. Teresa gets a whole bottle of the wine for the table, but Newt gets a half-filled glass of rum, poured over ice. 

“Sure,” he says, acting like it’s not there. “Why not?”

Teresa picks up her glass, then gestures for Newt to do the same with his, then puts her phone up. “I’ll do a boomerang. So clink glasses with me.”

“If you say so.”

He smirks up at the camera, clinking glasses with Teresa, then Teresa takes a sip, admiring her work. Newt, instead, puts his glass down. 

“Looks good,” Teresa says. She looks back up at Newt. “I like your shirt.”

Newt looks down at it, already having forgotten what he’s wearing. It’s black, silk, and worth more than this meal. He chose black for tonight to mourn his day off. “I like your dress.”

Teresa takes another sip of her drink, and Newt could swear a blush rises in her cheeks. “I saw a bit of you on GMA this morning. It was really sweet of you to stay up with your dog.”

And just like that, Newt’s sense of security evaporates. “Yeah, ehm,” Newt starts, picking up his glass. “She really had me scared. She’s still with my friend until my neighbors finish up.”

“What breed is she?” Teresa asks.

To avoid answering, Newt takes a long sip. “She’s a mix,” he finally says. “Brown and small, though, if that helps.”

She seems to be content with that answer. “I have two dogs. They’re really friendly.”

“Oh, that’s nice.”

“You should come by and meet them sometime,” Teresa says.

Newt chuckles out of a sip of rum, relishing the burn in his throat. “Should I, now?”

Now, she’s definitely blushing. Newt’s smile masks him as well as it always does, he’s sure. So kind, to everyone else. To her? Flirtatious. To him? It’s fueled. Charged by pure, unadulterated rage.

“Only if you want to,” Teresa says. 

Newt nods again, shotgunning the rest of his drink. “Sure, why not?”

“You know, you’re different from how I remember you on set,” she says. “Well, not that we got to speak much. But…”

“But what?” Newt asks. He catches their waiter’s eye, pointing to his drink.

“Nothing. Forget I said that,” Teresa says, sipping her wine.

“You didn’t like me, did you?”

She falters. “I did. You just… had a private way about you.”

“So, I was an asshole?” Newt says. “I get that a lot.”

“I don’t think that!” Teresa says. “Anymore.”

“Be careful. You could still be right,” Newt says, as someone delivers him another drink and replaces their untouched plates with another course. This time, a centimeter deep bowl of soup.

“Most assholes aren’t self aware.”

“So, I got America’s sweetheart’s approval? Today’s my lucky day,” Newt says, with a wink. God, people are too easy. It’s infuriating.

This is the game. Newt downs his second glass, then helps Teresa with her bottle. On his second glass of hers, she frowns.

“Are you alright to drink that much?”

“‘Course I am,” Newt says. “My tolerance is made of oak.”

He drinks another one of those, and then finally, the edges of his vision begin to blur. The talking comes easier, now. It’s best when there’s nothing going on in your brain. It’s all dark, and he can indulge in Teresa’s stories, nodding like he’s listening. Tell his own rehearsed ones. Laugh, and not worry about the authenticity. 

She doesn’t seem to really notice he’s drunk. Or, rather, she doesn’t seem to care much. She only had one or two glasses, but she looks relieved that the night is going well. 

By the time they leave, Newt is trying extra hard to walk correctly. His legs are doing the right movements, but he’s not exactly controlling it outside of muscle memory. It’s been awhile. A  _ long _ time. Before today, he was proud of that. 

The cameras greet them outside, and he’s sure to walk close to her, putting a hand on the small of her back. If he has to do this, he’s going to milk it. He might as well make Vince happy.

When they climb into Newt’s car, he makes a show of it. With Thomas, he tried to be subtle because he wanted to fool around. Well, before he changed his mind. Not because he didn’t want to. But because Thomas is nice. Why fuck that up?

This, however—this was fucked to begin with. 

Newt smiles lazily at Teresa. “Am I meeting your dogs?”

“Sure,” she says shyly. Then, she calls out her address to the driver. Upper East Side. Figures. “You’re slurring a bit. Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Just didn’t sleep well. I’m more than alright.”

The car is maddeningly hot, and Newt undoes the first button of his shirt while Teresa maintains a watchful eye. 

Now, with the alcohol in his system, Newt can appreciate the appreciation. For a while, when he was a bit younger, he thought he was bi because of it. That rush of making someone melt in your presence was enough to buy into the bullshit his therapist has taught him is “compulsory heterosexuality.” He didn’t like girls. He liked attention. 

The attention is what makes him put his hand over Teresa’s. The attention is what makes him follow her up to her penthouse. The attention is what doesn’t allow him to say no when her lips connect with his. 

***

Thomas checks his phone first thing in the morning. Sure enough, he spots it not even a minute into searching.

He’s right there, standing behind Newt. On Instagram, he’s labelled as a friend. On Twitter, they have some other theories.

**oh, he’s cute. boyfriend, methinks??? nalby breakup theory 6.0**

**NEWT GOT SOME!!!**

**i hope they r happy together <3**

**guys newt is cheating on alby and gally again**

**look how he looks at him omg**

Thomas can’t help but grin up at his screen. It’s  _ him.  _ They don’t even know his name, but they’re all talking about him. It’s like being a proxy-celebrity. 

The door swings open, causing Thomas to drop his phone on his face, and he grimaces, sitting up to greet a laughing Minho in the doorway.

“Dude, that was awesome,” Minho says between laughs.

“What do you want?” Thomas asks.

“So, there’s a pre-midterms party tonight, and we’re invited, so we’re going,” Minho says.

“Pre-midterm party? Shouldn’t there be a post-midterm party?” Thomas asks.

“Not after we see our grades, there shouldn’t be,” Minho says. “So, plan accordingly. And if you want to invite that girl you’ve been hooking up with, she’s invited too.”

_ Yeah, about that.  _ “Right.”

“You wanna go study before it? We can go to the fancy Starbucks, my treat.”

Thomas knits his brow. “You’re in a good mood.”

“Am I?” Minho asks, leaning against the doorframe. How he’s not ghastly pale like Thomas in the winter, he’ll never know. His olive tone never wavers. It’s as consistent as his hair. This is why Thomas is always playing wingman.

“Who’s going to this party?” Thomas asks.

Minho shrugs. “A friend.”

“Does this friend happen to be blonde? Tall? And always friendzones you?”

“I dunno, I’ve been getting a vibe lately. I’m feeling lucky,” Minho says, giddy as a child. “Now get ready. Out the door in five.”

Minho leaves him again, and Thomas’ first instinct is to text Newt. Thank him again for last night. But would that look desperate? That’s the last thing he wants.

Thomas mulls that over in his head all the way to Starbucks while Minho talks about Ben and the party tonight. He mulls it over all through studying. Where numbers should be, he sees Newt onstage, or in the car, or standing shirtless in his dressing room. 

Maybe he should just text him something casual. Like ask how he’s doing today. God, that’s lame.

He finally comes back to his phone, searching Newt’s name on Twitter, and what comes up instead of Thomas’ own face is a slew of photos and videos from GMA. He was on this morning? How did that not come up?

A lot of the tweets relate to a dog.  **when did newt get a dog????** one reads, and everyone underneath agrees that they didn’t know about it. A lot of them also comment how Newt bought coffee for the whole studio and took the time to meet everyone. All of the other tweets are about how good he looks.

Thomas opens a clearer photo to unabashedly look at Newt, and, yeah, he looks good. In all fairness, when doesn’t he? He zooms in, examining his face. Y’know, like a creep. And his smile is dazzling, but there’s something else to it that Thomas can’t place.

“Hey,” Minho says, snapping in front of Thomas’ face. “No phone. Study.”

There’s a role reversal if Thomas ever saw one. “Sorry.”

They’re there another four hours, ordering multiple drinks and snacks, and then finally, they decide to walk back to the apartment. Thomas doesn’t appreciate this enough. Living with his best friend has always been a bucket list item. Now, he’s living the dream. 

Thomas readjusts the backpack on his shoulder, hugging his jacket to his chest. He keeps a hand in his pocket, though, because he and Minho have a system. Any time someone asks for money, they always have it ready to go in these little money clips they bought when they were drunk and thought money clips were funny.

The buildings in the Lower East Side are a bit smaller than Midtown, but not so much so that he doesn’t have to tilt his head up high to see the tops. The big difference is that it’s more gritty down here. Realer. In his opinion, this encapsulates the city more than anything. It’s not overly gentrified yet, there aren’t so many tourist traps, and it feels like a neighborhood. Just, one with busy streets and tall apartment buildings. 

They get back to the apartment at nearly four, and Thomas feels refreshed, having gotten out and finally retained a bit of information. He showers, quizzing himself as he does so, and then stares disappointedly into their fridge. How he constantly forgets that he actually has to put something in there and it doesn’t just magically appear, he doesn’t know.

He joins Minho on the couch a while to watch Friends, since it’s the only good thing on and Thomas always complains about it being off of Netflix, then they go their separate ways to get ready for the party.

See? He hasn’t thought about Newt in hours. He’s doing great. He smiles at himself in the mirror. He can casually be friends with a celebrity. No biggie. He’s the topic of conversation for all those people, but the rumors don’t bother him. No, he’s a private person. They can speculate what they want.

Thomas’ fake interview is interrupted by Minho knocking at his door. “We’re gonna be late!”

“It’s not even seven,” Thomas says, opening his door so quick, Minho has to jump back.

“Yeah, well,” Minho says, nodding behind him. “Let’s go.”

Turns out, this party is _at_ Ben’s, explaining an abundance of things. His apartment is a bit bigger, but his parents are loaded, so it makes sense. Ben himself is sort of a dopey athlete disguised as a physical therapy major with a heart of pure gold. Thomas likes the guy.

“He’s wearing tight pants,” Minho whispers to Thomas as they filter into the kitchen. “I’m so getting that fifty.”

Oh, and he bet Minho fifty dollars that he wouldn’t have the guts to shoot his shot tonight. But, it’ll be a happily spent fifty if he does. Minho never shuts up about him. 

Thomas has never been the biggest fan of the party atmosphere, but he doesn’t mind it. In fact, during high stress times like these, he can appreciate it a lot more. 

The party gets going, smoke fills the air, liquor and beer bottles are spread throughout the kitchen counter, and the music is turned up loud enough to make Ben’s neighbors hate him. Thomas recognizes a few people, mostly from other parties, and they all get plastered so quickly that holding a conversation with anyone is both unnecessary and hilarious if managed.

Thomas hits the vodka, then realizes it’s disgusting, so he switches over to whatever mixed drinks Harriet is making. He thinks there’s Fireball in there. Whatever it is, it’s good, and it makes him loosen up.

Their version of a dancefloor is an open living room with too many people standing in it, some of which are grinding against each other, some just sat talking, and some dancing alone. Thomas peeks over heads to try to spot Minho, and he finds him conveniently talking to someone with his back to Ben, who’s right there.

“Thomas!”

Thomas hears a shriek, and he almost drops his drink as he turns to meet the person behind it.

“Sonya,” he breathes out. “Jesus, you scared me.”

Sonya, wild-eyed and in a low-cut top with ruffles on the sleeve, grabs both of his arms. “You were with  _ Newt last night?”  _

Thomas freezes up. How the hell? “Lower your voice, please.”

“I will not!” Sonya says, before lowering her voice. “How do you know him? Why were you there?”

“It’s a long story, but we went to school together,” Thomas says, biting back a grin. Can anyone blame him? This is probably the coolest thing to ever happen to him.

“Are you friends?” Sonya asks.

“Kinda—how did you know about that, anyway? What, do you have a stan Twitter?” 

She shys away at that. “We all need a way of getting through school, right?”

Thomas laughs. “We just started hanging out recently, but you can’t tell anyone.”

“You need to see what people are saying about you, I was actually dying,” Sonya says, grabbing her phone. She opens Twitter in front of him, checking her feed.

“Sonya, you didn’t tell anyone, did you?” Thomas asks.

“Here? No, of course not,” Sonya says. “Oh! Here we—wait.”

“I didn’t mean here, I meant online,” Thomas says.

“Why is he out with  _ her?”  _

“Sonya, I—hold on, let me see that,” Thomas says, grabbing her phone.

On it is a photo of Newt with Teresa Agnes, smiling at her on a sidewalk with his hand on her back. Teresa’s head is down, but he can still see the pleased look on her face.

Thomas goes to wonder when this is from, but the caption says “NEW!” with the date and everything. 

“Can I have it back now?” 

“What?” Thomas asks. “Oh, yeah, sorry.”

It’s fine that he’s out with her. It’s not like it affects him or them. They’re friends. That’s the deal. It’s what Thomas wanted in the first place. 

“I feel like it’s a PR stunt,” Sonya says. 

“Why would you say that?” Thomas asks.

“We all think he’s gay. That’s why they all—” Sonya cuts herself off, eyes widening.

“They all  _ what?”  _

“They sort of… they thought you and him were a thing,” Sonya says.

“We’re not,” Thomas says. It’s sort of the truth. “But it doesn’t matter because they don’t know who I am, anyway.”

“Right,” Sonya says. But there’s something wrong with it.

“Sonya?”

“Mhm?”

“Did you tell Twitter who I am?”

Her pause gives Thomas’ throat enough time to dry up. It gives her enough time to have a very visible debate in her head. “Only that I know you.”

“What the fuck, Sonya?” Thomas yells so loud, that everyone in the vicinity turns to look.

She looks around. “I didn’t tell them anything else!”

“I’m not buying that,” Thomas says. “Give me your phone.”

“What? No!” 

“Sonya,” Thomas warns. 

She reluctantly hands it over, and Thomas begins scrolling through her tweets, having lost the attention of the crowd. It doesn’t take long to find the first ones. The “I know him,” with a keyboard smash accompanying. Underneath are hundreds of replies, and to the first one, she wrote, “I know that he’s bi.”

Thomas suddenly feels sick. “You fucking outted me to the internet?” 

Sonya’s expression has more than fallen. “I…”

“Do you know what things like this can do to Newt? To me?” Thomas asks, and now, the attention is back on.

“I’m so sorry. I’ll tell them I mistook you for someone else,” Sonya says as Thomas hands her back her phone.

“You’ve done enough,” he says, shaking his head. “We’re friends. Nothing more. You can go tell all your friends about that.”

And, without looking back to check where Minho is or minding the eyes on him, Thomas storms out. 


	5. greedy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> newt and thomas are a disaster and then they look at puppies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rated R

No matter how hard Newt scrubs, it doesn’t change a thing. His head is still pounding. He’s still not clean. His mouth is still dry. Last night still happened.

He gives up after a while, stepping out of the shower, shaking his hair out. Sometimes, he thinks of buzzing it all off. He did once, then claimed it was for a role. Not his finest look, but the decision was gratifying in the moment. 

Gripping both sides of the sink, he stares at himself in the mirror, wiping a bit of the fog away. He’s Newt. Eligible bachelor. Award-winning actor. Loving son. Sounds more like a eulogy than a person.

His brown eyes sink in more than usual this morning. He left Teresa’s around five in the morning after a night without sleep but making sure she wasn’t awake herself when he snuck away. Instead of a note, he left a text. He’s picking up his fake dog right about now.

After getting dressed—just a pair of sweatpants—Newt lies on his couch, grabbing his phone. Missed call from Vince, with a text asking if last night went well. A text from Gally asking if he wants to get lunch before their respective shows. Nothing from Alby. No therapy until tomorrow. Sometimes Newt likes the days where he’s yelled at.

He doesn’t want Vince’s particular brand of nagging and Gally’s about as much of a yes-man as anyone. That only leaves him with—

His phone buzzes, but it’s not a call or text. It’s the doorman, asking to let someone up.

Newt frowns down at his phone. 

Then, he clicks the green button.

***

The moment Newt answers the door, Thomas forgets everything he needed to say. Mostly due to his bare torso.

So, what comes out instead is, “You don’t have a dog.”

Newt, after a hesitant moment, shakes his head, the hint of a smile forming. “No, I don’t. I lied to excuse myself for being late, and now I’m being forced to get a dog.”

Thomas smiles, trying to fight off his nausea. 

“Come on, then,” Newt says, opening the door for him. 

He walks in, and it hits him how long these three days have been. It feels like he was last here a week ago. “Something happened.”

“Oh?” Newt asks, sitting on his couch. Thomas takes the opportunity to sit on the other end. “Do tell.”

“Well—” Thomas stops, finally looking him in the face. “Are you okay?”

“Peachy keen,” Newt says. His eyes almost appear swollen, and his hair is wet, but he looks gray. Not all there. “Something happened?”

“Um,” Thomas continues, “a girl I know sort of… she tweeted that she knew me and that I’m bi. I looked through all of her tweets. She put my name, too. She deleted all of it this morning, but a lot of people saw.”

Newt stares at him blankly. “Your point being?”

“My point? She told  _ your fans  _ she knows  _ me  _ and now they’ll all think…” Thomas trails off when Newt’s face remains unchanged. “Am I speaking a different language?”

“Why are you so worried about that? Showing your face around me is like a ticking time bomb, surely you knew that,” Newt says, putting a knee up on the couch. 

“Aren’t you worried about what they’ll say?” Thomas asks.

“Why are you?” Newt asks. “Look, I don’t love the speculation about what I do, but it’s a package deal. They’re still convinced Alby and I are married. You just have to not pay attention to silly rumors.”

“But…” Thomas trails off. They’re  _ not  _ silly rumors. They’re right, in a way, about him and Newt. 

“This is the life, Tommy. Do you mind or not?” Newt asks, harder this time.

“I don’t,” Thomas says. 

Newt nods. “Was that all?”

This attitude again? Not even lighthearted, just a— “Wait,” Thomas says, pulling himself out of his anger. “Is Teresa… here?”

Newt barks a laugh, before humorlessly replying, “No.”

“Oh,” Thomas says.

“Didn’t sleep all bloody night and got here two hours ago and now I have a show later,” Newt says, grabbing a pillow and putting it behind his head.

He stayed at Teresa’s? Is that what he’s implying? Where else would he be? “I didn’t sleep either.”

“Why not?”

“I was worrying,” Thomas says truthfully.

“Then you should have texted,” Newt says. “Could have saved you a lot of trouble coming all the way across Manhattan.” 

“You know friends aren’t usually dicks to each other when they’re worried? Or when they drop by?” Thomas asks. 

“I guess my friendships aren’t the same as yours,” Newt says, shutting his eyes.

“And what am I allowed to tell people? What was part of that NDA? Can they know we’re friends?”

“Use your judgment,” he mumbles.

Thomas groans, standing back up. “Do you realize how frustrating this is? I can’t even tell my best friend where I am—hell, I haven’t seen him since last night, which is why I’m here instead of telling him why I stormed out of that party.” He’s trying to yell until Newt flinches. Gets up. Fights back. “But none of that matters, because it’s what I signed up for, right?”

Finally, Newt’s eyes flutter open. He doesn’t look annoyed, or anything else Thomas wants him to be. He just stares.

“As it so happens, I’ve had a bit of a night as well, if that hasn’t occurred to you,” he finally says, his voice void of any emotion. For someone who emotes so much on stage, he sure can get cold. “So forgive me if I’m having a hard time finding sympathy for your fifteen minutes of fame.”

Thomas shakes his head. “Forgive me if I’m worried about people finding out about  _ you _ and that I can’t find it in me to pity your dinner that probably cost more than my rent or your night with Teresa Agnes.”

“Funny, I don’t recall asking for your pity,” Newt says, an edge to his tone.

Thomas steps closer. “You know, we haven’t spoken once without me getting so pissed off at you that I regret ever trying?”

Newt finally stands, and the hostility in his stance gives Thomas the rush he was waiting for. “Then why the fuck do you want to be friends at all?” he spits, matching Thomas’ energy.

“I wanted to be friends with  _ you,  _ not this stuck-up prick who doesn’t have the time of day to care about anything but himself.”

“What you see is what you get, darling,” Newt says, a wildness in his eyes making his smile dangerous. “I’m starting to think you only like me when I’m not speaking.”

“Maybe I do,” Thomas yells.

And then, Newt is grabbing him by the face, kissing him hard.

Thomas’ limbs go numb with it, and then in less than a moment, he’s giving it right back. Newt pulls him in relentlessly, and somehow, this is the first time Thomas has been able to breathe since he stepped foot in there.

Newt tugs at the jacket Thomas never got the chance to take off, tossing it to the ground and biting Thomas’ bottom lip as he slides his hands under his shirt.

It’s  _ so much,  _ and Thomas’ adrenaline from his anger is nowhere near gone—instead, it’s turned into another kind of desperation. One that has him grabbing at Newt’s bare chest, feeling every inch of him available. 

The first time Newt pulls away from Thomas’ lips, it’s to put his on Thomas’ jaw. Then neck.

“Fuck,” Thomas breathes, twisting his hands into Newt’s damp hair. 

Newt hums against Thomas’ neck, biting softer than Thomas was expecting, but the gentleness makes his knees weak and his toes curl. 

When he gets so low that Thomas’ shirt is blocking, Newt takes it off, Thomas helping him and throwing it somewhere behind them. He trails down so low that he winds up on his knees.

Thomas’ chest heaves as Newt undoes the button of his jeans. Then, when he takes the zipper between his teeth and drags it down with excruciating slowness, Thomas thinks he might pass out.

“Jesus Christ,” he says, earning a wicked grin from Newt, who proceeds to pull Thomas’ jeans down his legs.

Thomas gets them, his socks, and his shoes off at once, and then he’s left staring down at Newt, who’s watching him with big, innocent eyes just an inch away from what’s becoming quite the situation. He’s so sensitive, he can feel Newt’s warm breath, and it’s making the pit of his stomach tighten. 

And then, he stands up. Looks Thomas dead in the eyes, lips red and open. And he pulls him onto the couch.

Thomas is on his back in an instant, and Newt is all over him, kissing him into the cushions. It’s a shockingly roomy set-up, but the thought gets lost as Newt grinds his very obvious bulge against Thomas’, making him whine into his mouth.

How did it get to this? Maybe he should yell at Newt more often. 

But they’re supposed to be friends, aren’t they?

Knowing this, and knowing that right now, he doesn’t care, Thomas fumbles for Newt’s waistband, needing more than anything to just relieve this friction one way or another. Newt lets him, breaking away from another kiss to help him get his pants down to his thighs. And, Thomas discovers, he didn’t bother with underwear today.

Thomas pulls his own boxers down while Newt watches, sitting up to straddle him. The lock on Thomas’ thighs alone is enough to make his back involuntarily arch. 

Finally, he’s freed of the restrictive material, and Newt leans back down to resume the kissing. Except this time, his hand comes between them, gripping both of them and turning Thomas’ vision white-hot. 

His eyes roll back as he returns Newt’s sloppy, open-mouthed kiss, grabbing at his back and digging his nails in wherever he can. That elicits a moan from Newt’s throat, and it’s so beautiful, Thomas wants to hear it a thousand more times. 

It’s the most intense, euphoric feeling Thomas has ever had. 

Newt takes his hand away, using both to hover over Thomas, and they rut against each other obscenely, meeting at the middle and breathing each other’s air. Everything—Thomas’ midterms, their fight, how crazy it is to be under him right now—goes away, and Thomas can only feel him. Newt.  _ Newt.  _

When he comes undone, Newt isn’t far behind him, making a mess of both of their stomachs. Newt’s face remains over him, arms still strong but expression angelic and deeply sinful. His lips are parted and bruised, hair matted to his forehead now damp with sweat as well, and his chest heaves. The sight should be illegal.

And they barely even used their hands. 

Newt sits up and back onto Thomas’ legs, and Thomas can’t feel them in the slightest, aside from maybe an ache in his calves. Thomas watches him move his hair out of his face.

“I should,” Newt breathes, “I should probably shower again.”

Thomas would laugh if he wasn’t still recovering. “I didn’t expect that.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Newt says, his abs curled in now, slick with… well. You know.

“What?” Thomas asks. “We were friends—I mean we are—I mean, what does this mean for—”

While Thomas was speaking, Newt was swiping two fingers across his stomach, and now, he inserts them into Thomas’ mouth without warning as he shushes him. “You talk too much.”

Thomas could go for a second round.

When Newt pulls them out, he’s frozen again.

“That’s better,” Newt says. “I think talking is our problem.”

“Because you’re impossible?” Thomas asks.

“Because you insist on the fantasy that I’m not,” Newt says, sitting up to pull his sweatpants back to his waist. 

Thomas, now slightly embarrassed, pulls his boxers up. “I don’t think you  _ really  _ are. I just think you still see me like some fan.”

“Not anymore, because now we’re friends,” Newt says, standing back up.

Thomas sits upright, his head swimming. “I don’t think friends do… this.”

***

“Really?” Newt asks. “I think they should.”

This, this messy quickie with Thomas on his couch, has been the first time Newt could breathe since he got back. Feeling Thomas under his touch, getting him to the brink—it was cleansing, in the least pure way Newt could think of. He needed it.

“What about Teresa?” Thomas asks softly.

And, all at once, the feeling is gone. “What about her?”

“Are you two together?” Thomas asks in that naive way of his. His innocence is sweet. But when Newt is destructive, things worth harboring aren’t safe with him.

He laughs curtly. “My manager Vince sure would like us to be.”

Thomas doesn’t seem to understand. This, or anything. “So you are? Or you don’t want to be?”

Maybe a tad bit more than Newt thought. “That all depends on the media, Tommy. And if she doesn’t hate me for sneaking out before she woke up.”

Now, he looks upset. Newt has that tendency. 

“You’re really going to base your relationships off of what the media thinks? I thought it was supposed to be the opposite?” he asks.

“What the media thinks happens to be important to Vince,” Newt says. “Once again. The life.”

“But do  _ you  _ want to be with her?” Thomas asks.

Newt’s throat threatens to close on him. He squeezes a laugh through. “It’s not as if I’m being held at gunpoint.”

“If you  _ do  _ want to be friends, you should start by not lying to me,” Thomas says, and boy, does he have some fucking audacity for someone Newt only just started speaking to a handful of days ago. 

“I’m not lying,” Newt lies. “Besides, you’d never pity someone as well-off as I am, right?”

Thomas must know that Newt has him in checkmate, so he leans down, grabbing his jeans. Newt watches. His body is lean but broad, agile but sturdy, and responsive in a way Newt craves. Thomas is… he’s quite beautiful, really. Newt thought so the second he came over at the bar. 

In school, it was a different story. Newt knew he liked boys, that was very hard to ignore, but he tried not to think about it so much. He had plenty of other things to think about—especially with his mother pushing girls on him so much. But something about Thomas was intriguing. The way he’d stare at him at practice, or blush when he got close. It was Newt’s first time experiencing something like that with another boy. Getting that taste of adoration in a way he wanted it. 

Now, he’s got all the adoration in the world, and here’s this boy sitting in front of him who’s filled with it, and all Newt is doing is trying to force him away.

Thomas gets his pants buttoned, stomach still needing to be cleaned, and Newt wants to go back to ten minutes ago. To making Thomas feel good. To clearing his own mind. To finally feeling like himself.

“I don’t think I’m used to the whole friends thing,” Newt says, allowing a few of his thoughts to spill out. “I don’t know how it works. I’m just as lost as you.”

Thomas seems afraid to speak.

“Here,” Newt says, touching the back of Thomas’ arm lightly. He guides him down to the bathroom, nodding in. “Clean up.”

When Thomas goes in, Newt squeezes his eyes shut, holding his palms there. It’s like he physically can’t stop himself from being like this.

He uses the Gucci shirt he wore last night to wipe his stomach, then tosses it on the floor, grabbing a t-shirt and putting it on instead. Though, he anticipates showering a second time the moment Thomas is gone.

But, he’s still here for now, and when he walks out, he watches Newt cautiously. 

“First things first. You don’t need to keep it from anyone that we know each other,” Newt says, emerging from his room and leading Thomas back to his couch. “The NDA only covered the one night, and I’m not making you sign anymore. It’s recently come to my attention that that was a dick move.”

Thomas laughs at that, and the sound lifts Newt’s heart.

“And about Teresa. You know the sort of image I have, don’t you? I’m not new to this. It’s not even worth discussing, really,” Newt says because the last thing he needs is to be thinking about it. 

Teresa is Vince’s latest role for him. And if he has to play the part, he will.

***

Is this what Thomas wants? To be some friend with benefits while Newt is with a famous girl that can give him a lot more than Thomas ever could?

The prospect makes him sick. “So did you just… cheat on her?”

Newt laughs like Thomas told a joke. “I don’t think we’re going  _ steady,  _ mate. Like I said. It depends. Now, can we be done with the questions?”

Thomas nods, but he’s teeming with more to ask. Newt is just so frustrating. This solid wall that Thomas keeps hitting at to no avail. But maybe that’s all there is to him? Maybe he enjoys being rich and famous and having a different girlfriend every month and a different person in his bed all the time. 

“So,” Thomas says, grasping at conversational straws. “You have to get a dog?”

“It appears so,” Newt says. “Do you want to help me pick one?”

Thomas considers this. And considers the fact that this is easily the weirdest post-hookup he’s ever experienced. “Sure.”

They sit back on the couch, Newt grabbing his phone and dismissing every message he has before Thomas can see them. Then, he gets onto a rescue dog site, filtering for brown dogs.

“Why brown?” 

“All part of the lie,” Newt responds, scrolling.

They look together, but Thomas’ gaze keeps flicking up to Newt. His lips. His brown eyes, scanning his phone with inquisition. Regretfully, he’s the prettiest man Thomas has ever laid eyes on.

“I do recall asking for your help with the dog,” Newt says suddenly, turning to Thomas. “But if you wanted to continue inspecting my face, I think pictures last longer.”

That is the single weirdest yet hottest way Thomas has ever been humiliated. “Sorry.”

Newt gives him a once-over. Then, goes back to looking.

This time, Thomas pays attention. “What about that one?” he asks.

“That one? Looks like it’ll get too big. What about her?”

He points to a light brown dog that Thomas can’t put his finger on the breed of. It’s long but fluffy, with a round and stout snout and long floppy ears. Thomas grins.

“She’s adorable,” he says. 

Newt clicks on her page, scrolling through the photos. “I like her.”

Thomas sneaks a glance at the small smile that’s settled on Newt’s lips. “I say get her.”

He copies the link to the page, then pastes it in a text to this ever-looming presence named Vince with the message “this one.” 

“See?” Newt says after. “Who says lying is bad?”

“Do you even want a dog?” Thomas asks.

“I can barely take care of myself, let alone another thing that needs food and water,” Newt says, rubbing his eye. “But who knows? Maybe it’ll be good for me.”

“Jeez,” Thomas says. Now, he’s regretting aiding him in this. “If you ever need someone to watch it, I can do it. I don’t need your animal neglect on my head.”

Newt laughs. “I might take you up on that if you’re so worried.”

Thomas smiles despite himself. All he can think about is Newt’s hands on him, and he’s volunteering for more time with him? When he might be dating someone else? When he would be forced to keep Thomas a secret; something casual that’d hurt everyone involved but Newt?

“Anyway. I’ve got lunch with Gally soon, for some reason. And a show later that I don’t want to do,” Newt says. “But thank you for coming over to fight with me again.”

_ You could call it that.  _ “I have midterms starting tomorrow, anyway. I should go.”

Newt nods, then leads him to the door, and leaving is the last thing Thomas wants to do. 

When Newt opens the door for him, he stalls for a moment, where Thomas thinks he might ask him to stay again. Then, “Good luck on the exams, mate.”

Thomas briefly wonders what it would be like to kiss him goodbye. But, for some reason, there’s always this uncanny phenomenon. Every time they stop touching, Newt grows cold. Like it never happened. How can he care so little?

He hardens himself to the casualty. “Good luck with the show.”


	6. no tears left to cry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thomas finally starts midterms and newt is a mess. also, gally is british. who knew?

Minho is on the couch when Thomas gets home, and for the first time in the history of their friendship, there’s a tension of sorts. Like neither of them know how to start the conversation.

Luckily, Thomas thought of something on the way. “Do I owe you money, or not?”

Finally, Minho grins. “Hell yeah, you do.”

Thomas returns his smile, trying to get the image of Newt out of his head. He’s vaguely aware that it’s messed up to bet on someone’s sex life, but hey, it’s been a long week. “You’re serious?”

“I only got here an hour ago,” Minho says, grabbing at his t-shirt and dusting it off. “I’ll take cash or credit.”

“It took you long enough. Are you seeing each other again, then?” Thomas asks, kicking his shoes off and joining him on the couch.

“Hopefully,” Minho says, getting a more reserved look on his face now.

“So you chickened out of asking?”

“Shut up,” Minho says. “Your turn.”

“My turn?”

“Uh, yeah, you screamed at Sonya and stormed out. And apparently, you’re best friends with Newt now, so there’s a lot you’re not telling me,” Minho says, hitting Thomas’ arm hard. “Spill.”

“In my defense,” Thomas starts. “I did sign an NDA.”

“A what?” Minho asks.

“Non-disclosure agreement,” Thomas says. “Meaning, I could’ve been sued if I told you anything. But I don’t think it counts now.”

Thomas tells him about everything but the sex. Talking the first night, going to the show, seeing Newt this morning. How much of an asshole he is.

“Huh,” Minho says, once the story is over. “So are you gonna hit that?”

_ “What?” _

“Just saying. Apparently, that’s what the internet thinks. He looks like he plays for our team,” Minho says.

“He doesn’t,” Thomas lies. “Those stereotypes are really harmful to—”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Minho says. “But anyway, are you getting anything out of this? Make him buy you stuff. Expensive dinners are nice, but preferably something for me.” 

“Well, I’m getting an old friend back,” Thomas says. “I know we didn’t bet on it, but I feel like you owe me money.”

“Nice try,” Minho says. “I’m happy for you, dude. Just don’t blow up at any more parties, alright?”

Thomas nods. “Maybe he could come here someday.”

Minho looks around. “Maybe he’s into shitty apartments. Seeing how the other half lives.”

Somehow, he always makes Thomas feel better. “Yeah. Maybe.”

For now, Thomas needs to study up. His mother always used to tell his sister not to let a man get in the way of her education, and he’s not about to let that happen to him.

***

“You know what I love about you and Alby?” Newt asks, leaning all the way onto the table with his elbows.

Gally laughs. He’s wearing some kind of wool sweater that’s a bit too long for his arms, even though he’s long. Not lanky like Newt appears, though. Buffer. “What’s that?”

“Our relationships aren’t cheapened by sex,” Newt says, leaning back again. “We talk. We have a laugh. We care about each other as human beings with no ulterior motive.”

“Uh-huh,” Gally says. “Whose relationship is  _ cheapened,  _ then? Teresa? From what I know, I’m guessing you’re not into her.”

“No. An old mate of mine from school,” Newt says, waving it off. “But that’s not my point.”

“You’re shagging someone you knew in school?” Gally asks, sipping his mimosa. 

“Missing my point again,” Newt says, staring up at him from over his glass. “It’s good to have people where you know they want you for  _ you.  _ Right? I mean, how hard is that to find, being us?”

Gally looks him up and down. “First of all, I’m ordering you a coffee and some more food, because you’re slurring your words. Second, knowing you, you’re probably the one cheapening it.”

“I’m fine,” Newt says. “What do you mean? Why would I?”

“Oh, come on. You’re gonna tell me you didn’t initiate?” 

“You didn’t see how he looks at me.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re the most emotionally unavailable person I know,” Gally says, flagging down the waitress. 

“I absolutely am not,” Newt says. “I know how to be friends with someone. You’re living proof.”

Gally finishes ordering the stupid coffee and glares at Newt. “Did your therapist really say it’s okay for you to drink? It doesn’t seem it.”

“I’m not a baby, Gallifred.”

“That’s not my name.”

“I know your name, you shit,” Newt says, ignoring the pounding behind his eyeballs. 

“Right,” Gally says, eyeing him. “Well, if you want to stop cheapening your relationships, stop unzipping your expensive pants for every living creature in a kilometer radius.”

“Don’t slut-shame me.” Newt grins. “I didn’t say there was an issue with what I do. I said it’s nice to have people that don’t want me for that.”

“And you think your little school friend only wants your body?”

Newt frowns. “Well… I don’t know. I don’t think so. Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Then stop complaining,” Gally says, before flashing a pearly white smile at the waitress as she brings Newt’s coffee and toast over. “Eat up, baby boy.”

“Fucking twat,” Newt spits. Then, he takes a bite of the toast. Last time he tries to make deep conversation, he guesses.

***

Thomas wipes a tear away as Minho paces back and forth.

“I don’t get it, man,” Thomas says, running his hands back through his hair. “I just don’t.”

“Shut up, I’m thinking,” Minho says.

“Are you still on the same question from five minutes ago?”

“I said shut up.”

Thomas sighs and goes back to his own review sheet. They both have their first midterm tomorrow, and they’re both miserable. And unprepared. And idiots.

Theoretically, Thomas has the capability to understand everything here. But with his brain jumbled beyond belief from the week he’s had, it’s like he’s reading a different lanuage. 

“Maybe we need a break,” Thomas says.

“No breaks,” Minho says. “Ben is going to think I’m so stupid.”

“Ben is one of the dum—”

Minho shoots him a look.

“Oh, come on, he’s the sweetest guy around but I don’t think he’s one to judge you on your grades,” Thomas says. “Whatever, point is, I’m not retaining any information. And you aren’t either, since you’re too busy thinking about your new boyfriend.”

“I could say the same for you,” Minho says. “I’ve never seen you so spaced.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Thomas says to his papers. He can’t stop his brain from adding an asterisk.  _ I wish.  _

“Uh-huh,” Minho says, resuming his pacing. 

Is Newt really holding him back from studying? Usually, this wouldn’t even stress him out. But lately, his brain is elsewhere. 

Minho puts on that lo-fi study beats video he swears by, and Thomas vows not to think about Newt anymore. No matter how good he may feel in the moment, he’s unattainable. Just friends is the only route for them.

Stupid Teresa.

***

There’s a loud knocking on Newt’s door at, what he discovers upon cracking his eye open, ten in the morning. Whoever this is is about to get a beating, because this is the millionth day in a row he hasn’t been able to sleep in. He stumbles out of bed, grabbing pants and walking into them as he approaches the door, the pounding still continuing like the devil itself has come for him.

“I’m fucking coming!” he yells, approaching it, getting a fist ready.

But, when he swings the door ajar, he’s met with something he wasn’t expecting.

“Here it is,” Vince says, shoving a puppy into Newt’s arms.

As annoyed as he is, the thing is pretty damn cute. It pants, shaking slightly as it looks up at Newt. She’s a bit heavier than Newt thought but lean, and already tries to cuddle up to his chest, licking the hand that supports her.

“In this bag, there’s food, training pads, and a cage you need to assemble,” Vince says, shoving a bag into the doorway. “Oh, and a toy. I need this posted to social media right away.”

“I don’t use—”

“Not yours,” Vince says, giving Newt a look. They both know what he’s talking about. “Have you spoken to her?”

“Um,” Newt says. It’s all Vince needs.

“Fuck’s sake,” Vince says. “Ask her over? Please? You’re seeing each other tomorrow night anyway.”

“We are?”

“At that event?”

If there wasn’t a puppy in his hands, Newt would throttle him. “Right.”

“So just call her? Alright?” Vince asks. He glances down at his phone. “I’ll call you later.”

Then, he’s jogging back down the hall. Probably a good call on his part.

“Guess it’s just you and me now,” Newt says to the dog. He closes the door behind them, letting her run like one of those toy cars you pull back and release. “And,” he says under his breath, “Teresa.”

The next time Newt hears a knock at his door that day, he knows exactly who it is. Hence, covering up an exasperated sigh. Which would still be better than what he wants to do, which is scream into the nearest decorative pillow. “Door’s open.”

It opens with reluctance, and Teresa peeks her head in. Then, grins. Presumably at the sight of the dog, and not the man that fucked her then left in the middle of the night. To be fair, though, she didn’t sound mad on the phone. It’s only been a day. 

“Is this the little one?” Teresa asks. 

“This is she,” Newt says, letting her out of his arms. She runs right up to Teresa, wagging her tail.

“What’s her name?” Teresa asks, leaning down to pet her.

Oh shit. A name. How’d he forget a name? Well, she’s well-mannered so far. He was afraid she’d be loud, but she just keeps to herself. “Ah,” Newt says. “Bark.”

_ Bark?  _ Teresa frowns. “Bark? Does she bark a lot?”

“Nope,” Newt says, fighting back a cringe. “Anyway. Come, sit. Do you want a drink?”

“I’m alright,” Teresa says, carrying the dog over. “She’s so friendly.”

“She’s a gem,” Newt says. “My fans keep asking to see her, but I don’t want to break my social media streak. Or, lack-thereof.” 

He doesn’t need to ask her twice. Or even once. Her phone is out in a moment, calling Bark over. It’s the first time she’s even heard her stupid name, so she takes a moment, then eventually she’s attacking Teresa’s hand playfully. 

Teresa puts the camera on her, but before the short video is over, she pans it over to Newt, who smiles on instinct. What will his fans think? Hopefully, exactly what they want them to. But there’ll always be those conspiracy theorists—which, in this case, are correct. Sometimes he’ll read their theories about his past relationships and they’re spot on. But really, they’re convinced every move a celebrity makes is a PR stunt. Most of the time, that’s not true. 

But Newt is a special case, and he only has himself to blame.

“So,” Teresa starts. “The other night was nice.”

Newt feels something remarkably similar to bugs crawling under his skin. “I thought so too. Sorry I had to rush out like that.”

“No, I understand,” Teresa says, letting Bark hop into her lap. 

_ No, you don’t.  _ “How are you?”

“I’m good,” she says, then hesitates. “I hope I didn’t come on too strong.”

This is like watching a bridge collapse in slow motion. Tragic and never-ending. “Of course not.”

“Good,” she says. “I usually don’t… I mean, I don’t like to come off as—”

Newt laughs, cutting her off. “You don’t have to worry about that with me.”

She nods, and Newt feels a twinge of pity for her. She’s a sweet girl. Really. Much kinder than Newt. There’s no way for her to know. He’s the monster here.

But, of course, he can’t discern between those feelings. All of it translates to one thing. 

“Have you seen the stories? About us?” Newt asks, tilting his head. 

“A few,” Teresa says, making minimal eye contact. “Your fans are something else, by the way. I’m already getting death threats in my messages.”

Newt knits his brows together. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s alright,” she says, then laughs. “Well, not alright, but it doesn’t bother me.”

“This industry makes dating one hell of a feat,” Newt says, tilting his body towards her.

That blush is back. Newt digs his nails into his palm hard, trying to combat the hollowness in his chest with  _ something.  _ Anything.

Because he made his bed. And now, he has to lie in it.

***

That was the  _ last  _ thing Thomas needed to see right before his midterm. He’d literally rather accidentally be on the receiving end of one of Minho’s lewd Snapchats again than see what he saw.

The whole test is spent trying to push it away, shrinking the lecture hall down to him and the phone burning a hole in his pocket. But why? This isn’t new. He told Thomas himself. They might be a thing. And fine! Let them. She’s in his league.

But didn’t he sound like he didn’t want that? He certainly didn’t seem enthused. To Thomas, it sounded like it was purely for the public’s sake. But now she’s over at his place. God, Thomas is acting like she posted a marriage announcement. Instead, she was playing with the puppy Thomas helped Newt pick.

This is so pathetic. Every time he and Newt speak they end up arguing. He’s a dick. Just because he’s hot and they’ve hooked up, it doesn’t mean Thomas has the right to him. He doesn’t even want him! And he won’t help Newt cheat on Teresa. Despite how Newt may feel about her, that’s just mean. He won’t partake in that. 

No, if Newt wants Thomas again… he’ll need to break things off.

Thomas is both pleased by the thought and embarrassed by it. Newt could have anyone he wanted. If he was going to cheat, he might not even consider Thomas. Withholding sex won’t exactly keep him honest. 

No! Thomas won’t help. He can’t. That’s not who he is. 

When time is called on the test and Thomas still has half a page of questions unanswered, he feels his eyes well up again. Fuck school, fuck Newt, and fuck himself for letting this happen.

He storms out of the class, vowing one thing to himself.

Newt is not going to get in the way of his life.

***

The hairdryer’s piercing screech is much too loud for Newt. He winces, squeezing the bridge of his nose and trying to ease the pain. In a way, it works, because Brenda turns the infernal device off.

“Alright, what’s wrong with you? You haven’t said a word and you look half-dead, which makes my job a lot harder, especially since you keep moving your head away like a child,” Brenda chastises him.

“Nothing,” Newt says, lifting his heavy head. “Continue.”

“No, you look terrible, and you’ve been acting even worse than usual. Not to mention the fact that you reek of alcohol. Did you seriously show up for a Broadway show  _ drunk?”  _

“You know, for a lesbian, you sure are riding my dick.”

Brenda thwacks the side of Newt’s head, making it pound with pain again.

“Ow!” Newt yells, holding his head. Not that he blames her for it. 

“You need to take your job seriously. People work their entire lives for this opportunity and you’re just going to sit here acting like you’re too good for it? What, were you out partying too late? Partying this morning?”

“I wasn’t fucking partying,” Newt says, putting his head in his hands. 

“So you decided to get drunk for fun?” Brenda asks.

When Newt’s eyes close, he sees it. Sees  _ her.  _ Teresa. So, instead, he peels them open. “Exactly.”

Brenda looks at him in the mirror, then circles around in front of him, sitting on the counter. “Look at me.”

Newt reluctantly looks up and hates what he finds. He’d rather her be mad than concerned. “What?”

“What’s wrong? I can’t imagine much is. You being you and all,” she says. “But enlighten me. What has you down?”

While her words aren’t the kindest, she doesn’t say them condescendingly. She’s starting to remind Newt of Thomas. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

“Bullshit,” Brenda says. “You can talk to me. Consider me a bartender that makes you look pretty.”

“I have a therapist already,” Newt says. Not that he didn’t cancel their appointment today.

“Well, now you have two,” Brenda says. “If you give me a hint, I’ll do the rest of your hair without the dryer.”

That is tempting. “Just a slump. My manager is always down my throat.”

“Then tell him that,” Brenda says.

“It’s not that simple,” Newt says. It’s never as simple as everyone else makes it sound. “Besides, it’s all my fault. I chose this, right? So, doesn’t matter.”

“Maybe you should talk in therapy about coping mechanisms,” Brenda says, getting back up and grabbing the hair gel. “Ones that don’t involve drinking.”

Newt swallows hard. “I did stop drinking. I just… have one or two sometimes. I can stop whenever I want to.”

“Then maybe you should,” Brenda says. And she’s right, in theory.

But there’s something about it that’s so… cleansing. In a destructive, messy way. And there’s nothing he loves more than throwing himself a pity party. “I will.”

“And get yourself a hobby. Find a bit of normalcy. Too much of all of this,” she says, waving a comb, “can be a lot.”

“You’re saying I need humbling?” Newt asks.

“That, and an aspirin,” Brenda says, grinning at him in the mirror. “I care about you, for some reason. You can talk to me.”

Newt manages a weak smile back. “Yes ma’am.”

Regardless, once the show is over, and Brenda has gone away, Newt finds himself overcome with loneliness. Overcome, meaning it runs so deep, his very bones ache with it. 

So, he looks to make another mistake. A mistake he’s not sure is a mistake. 

He texts Thomas, asking him what he’s doing and if he can come by. His knee shakes in the back of the car, waiting for a reply. It’s Thomas. What else can he have going on?

When his phone buzzes, he grabs it so quickly, he almost drops it.

**Last Night’s Mistake: Sorry. Midterms.**

Newt hardens his jaw. Oh, shit, is he going to  _ cry?  _ No, that’s ridiculous. Not again. Who can he call? Text? Would anyone be around?

He lowers the divider like his life depends on it. “Driver?”

“Yeah?”

“The closest club,” Newt says. “Don’t care what kind.”

The driver sighs, and Newt doesn’t bother putting the divider back up. Having another person in view is grounding, in a way. Like there are eyes on him, expecting something of him. Expecting  _ Newt.  _ The young playboy actor who doesn’t cry for no reason.

When he arrives, he vaguely registers the fact that this is a bad idea. He’s sure to get recognized. He really should have security with him, or at least a friend. Too bad he has none. 

It’s almost instant when he walks in. Heads turn so quickly, it’s like a joke. New Yorkers, some of the time, like to act too elite to care when a celebrity is among them. That’s why he’s not stormed right away. Nobody wants to be a fan. 

The music occupies his brain, reactivating his headache but calming him all the same, and he heads straight for the bar. Luckily, that’s another perk. Instant service.

“What’ll it be?” the guy yells over the music.

“Scotch and soda,” Newt yells back.

“ID?” the guy asks.

Newt sighs. “You know who I am, don’t you?”

The guy looks him up and down. “Sure. But you look young.”

Goddamn babyface. Newt gets out his ID, flashing it to the guy before he finally disappears to get his drink. 

He can barely sit before three girls have crowded him. 

“Hi, I’m sorry to bother you, it’s just—we’re huge fans of your work,” the first girl says. Brunette, probably under twenty-one. Seems sort of nervous.

Newt smiles. “Thank you, it means a lot.”

They give him their names, and he retains them in his short term memory. When he gets his drink, he sips it as they talk to him, and it doesn’t feel like him having the interaction. Like he’s taken a backseat and something else took over. It’s him, but not…  _ him.  _

All of them ask for photos, so he complies, and by the time he’s shaken them off, he’s done with his drink and someone new is sitting beside him. Someone that looks more his age.

He waits while Newt orders his drink, and Newt cocks his head at him once he’s done. “And you?”

The guy’s cheeks flush. “Uh. A tequila sunrise.” 

“On my tab,” Newt adds. 

The bartender disappears, and the guy hasn’t stopped staring at Newt. “Are you… Newt?”

“Dunno, mate,” Newt says. “Am I?”

He laughs. “I’m Aris.”

“We both hit the name lottery, then,” Newt says, earning another laugh. 

“It’s, ah, short for Aristotle. Cool, but got me bullied in school,” Aris says.

“Much cooler,” Newt says, nodding. “What brings you here, Aris?”

“Oh, you know. Being twenty-one. Sort of the thing to do,” Aris says. “And I came with a straight friend of mine who needed a wingman.”

Newt raises his eyebrows. “Interesting. And this is a straight club?”

“Extremely,” Aris says. Then, he tilts his head. “You’re doing a Broadway show, aren’t you?”

“I am,” Newt says, as the bartender brings their drinks.

“I’m trying to be an actor,” Aris says. “Well, I’ve been an extra.”

Newt would roll his eyes if he wasn’t in desperate need of company. “Very nice. Keep hitting the auditions.”

Aris nods. “Oh, I will. It’s a tough industry, y’know?”

Now, Newt can’t hold back his laugh. “I do.”

Aris clears his throat. “You’re, uh, real good looking in person.”

“You think so?” Newt asks, quirking an eyebrow.

Aris nods more. He’s barely touched his drink. “Sorry, I know you’re probably not—”

“I’ll tell you what,” Newt cuts him off. He leans in closer, lowering his voice and watching Aris’ pupils grow. “Why don’t you ditch your friend over there and come with me?”

Aris is nodding before Newt can even finish his sentence, looking like he can’t believe his luck.

Newt grins. Looks like he won’t be alone tonight after all.


	7. in my head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thomas remembers the night he and newt properly met

Thomas has somewhat of a morning routine now. No, he won’t let Newt get in the way of what he needs to do, but… if he checks Twitter and Instagram in the morning and he just happens to pop up, that’s not Thomas’ fault. He doesn’t care what Newt does. He told him no to coming over last night for a reason.

But this morning makes Thomas rethink his routine.

He reacts to the photos like touching a hot plate, nearly throwing his phone onto his bed. His heart pumps hard in his chest. 

Well, at least he was right, wasn’t he? That’s a consolation? Maybe he can get himself to really let go of this idea that he and Newt… Why did he ever think that? Not that he believed it. But in the back of his mind, he figured maybe he could mean something to Newt. 

But Newt was right. He’s just a fucking playboy.

Thomas forces himself to look through the tweets. Newt with some guy named Aris, apparently. Some people are saying they’re probably friends. But people that were _there_ are claiming they left together. Someone’s found Aris’ Twitter. He says he’s an actor, but his IMDb doesn’t have anything. He hasn’t tweeted today, but all of his replies are asking him if he was with Newt.

Now, Thomas feels sick. He should have gone over last night. 

No! Why does he keep coming back to that? But the thought of Newt with that guy is just so utterly infuriating. It makes him miss that morning when _he_ was all the buzz, just for being around Newt. But isn’t he with Teresa?

Thomas hits his head repeatedly, before huffing. He can settle this after midterms. No more Newt for now. 

He rolls out of bed, trying hard to put Newt out of his mind and his study material into it. He has another exam this afternoon, and he has to use all of today to study. In order to do that, he won’t be touching his phone. 

Because at the end of the day, he knows that Newt won’t be thinking of him.

***

Unlike Thomas, Aris knows how one-night stands work. In the morning, he gets dressed, trying to act cool about it. Then, he’s out of there, without Newt even having to get up.

It’s obvious he wanted Newt for the novelty. He won’t get the street cred, seeing as he signed the NDA, but he wanted to feel like he was on Newt’s level for the night. They both got what they wanted.

Newt stares up at his ceiling. Aris was a little like Thomas, in a sheepish way. But he was also a bit annoying. Full of himself, as the pretty ones tend to be. Thomas… he doesn’t seem to know what he has. His worth. 

Maybe it’s for Thomas’ own good that he didn’t come over last night.

Newt rolls over and grabs his phone to see three missed calls from Vince, and about a hundred texts from him. They alternate between begging Newt to call him and asking him what and who he did last night. Instead of calling him, Newt goes to Alby and Gally’s texts, asking each of them if they’re going to the same event tonight. 

Until he accidentally accepts Vince’s call while typing.

He mutters a curse under his breath, putting Vince on speaker since he’s too lazy to bring the phone to his ear. “What?”

“Did. You. Have. A guy. Over. Last. Night.”

“So what? He signed the NDA,” Newt says, yawning.

“Did everyone at the club sign an NDA? They all saw you leave together, and now it’s all I’m seeing anywhere. And were you _drinking?”_

“What do you want me to do about it? They can say whatever they want,” Newt says, clicking on a notification from Alby. That’s a no on the event.

“You need to make things official with Teresa. Tonight. At that party.”

Newt’s eyes shut, something squeezing his chest and closing his throat.

“Did you hear me? No more messing around. Do what you want behind closed doors, but make it _behind closed doors. Closed._ You got it?”

Newt bites his lip so hard it might draw blood. When he feels it might, he pauses to say, “Got it.”

“Thank you. And stick by Teresa’s side tonight. The photographers will be watching.”

“Mhm.”

“Are you upset?”

“No,” Newt says quickly. “This is our job.”

“Right,” Vince says. “Have you been doing therapy?”

“‘Course,” Newt lies.

“Great,” Vince says. “Eight o’clock tonight, straight from your show.”

“Mhm,” Newt says. “Bye.”

He hangs up before Vince can get another word out, and grabs his pillow, screaming bloody murder into it.

It rips his throat raw, but he doesn’t care, continuing until he hears jingling at his door.

Then, he brings it down to his lap, the dampness of his cheeks being exposed to the air. And now, there’s a dog jumping onto his bed.

“Bark,” Newt croaks, grabbing her and holding her close to his chest. “Fuck, I gotta give you more food, don’t I?”

She looks up to him, wagging her tail, and Newt gives her a weak, broken smile. 

If he can’t take care of himself, he can take care of her.

***

The great thing about midterms is that, instead of focusing on how awful life can be in general, you get to focus on how awful one thing is in particular. It’s a different kind of breakdown. A pause from the usual. Thomas can always find the bright side in things.

Reading on the subway makes Thomas dizzy, so he takes a rest from studying on the way over to school. He’d rather not vomit on his notes. 

Unfortunately, that gives him time to think.

He hasn’t checked his phone since the morning. It’s easier that way. Newt can’t distract him, and he can’t get any texts from anyone asking if he knows Newt. Sonya and her big mouth. 

But, of course, Newt finds a way.

Thomas can see him now, sitting on the couch. But not the couch of his lavish apartment. No, this would be the couch of Clint Redding, one of the stage crew members that worked on their production of _Noises Off._ He was a senior, and if Thomas remembers correctly, even he sort of already treated Newt like a celebrity. He got his favorite drinks for the cast party.

There he was, still in his stage makeup, red cup in hand, just like something out of the movies. Thomas hadn’t been to a party before, but this was the closest he’d gotten at that point. There was drinking, hookups, loud music, kids being rowdy and annoying. The musical theater kids were playing karaoke, since they’re all stereotypical, and some other kids played card games or beer pong.

Newt, however, was just sitting there. Not in an outcast way—people kept trying to talk to him—but the way a king sits atop his throne and looks down on his subjects. He was too good for them, and they all knew it.

However, he did participate in one game. Seven minutes in heaven. Clint dragged him over when they started, likely hoping to be the one stuck with him. And Thomas, in a moment of rare bravery, decided to join. He thought it could be the most action he’d get in years. In hindsight, he was sort of a nerd, so he wasn’t wrong.

They sat in a circle, Newt sitting casually on the floor with his arm leaning on his knee, and they spun a bottle around, Thomas’ heart pounding. 

When it stopped, Thomas’ breathing went with it.

“Whoa, Tom! You’re up!” Clint had hollered through a laugh.

Thomas remembers being mortified. He didn’t think it would ever land on him, let alone _first._ But then, it was his turn to spin it. Whoever it landed on, he’d be spending seven whole minutes with. Alone.

He spun, and the moments the bottle was going seemed like the longest of Thomas’ young life. His face must have been beet red. 

And then, it landed.

Thomas could hardly believe where his gaze landed when he slowly lifted it from the bottle. Not only the person, but the sight before him.

Newt smirked, taking another sip of his drink while everyone else laughed and yelled. His eye contact was lethal, and Thomas’ mouth went dry.

“Does it count if it’s two guys?” one girl asked.

“Obviously,” Clint said. “Get in there!”

Thomas couldn’t bring himself to laugh. This was _Newt._ The boy he’d been ogling at for months now. His shaking legs forced themselves off the ground, and Newt followed, looking like this couldn’t possibly phase him less.

“Thomas, prepare to leave here a changed man,” Newt said loudly, making everyone around them burst back into hysterics.

Thomas choked out a laugh. “Jesus.”

Clint didn’t have a closet, so instead, the two were corralled into a small bathroom holding only a toilet and a sink and barely enough room for them both to stand in. Before Thomas could even comprehend the situation, the door was closing behind them.

He stared at it for a moment after, trying to think of something to say. Anything. Because surely, nothing was going to _happen_ in there.

“So, Thomas,” Newt started, forcing Thomas to turn back around. He was standing so close that Thomas’ body stiffened. “Enjoying the party?”

He nodded. “Sorry, um, about this. You probably would’ve liked it a lot more if you got, like, Ximena.”

Newt laughed, looking down at his drink. “Not my type.”

Thomas wondered how, since she was the most popular girl in school. But didn’t want to press. “Oh. Still, though.”

“You know, you’re quite shy for someone in theater,” Newt said.

“I needed extracurriculars,” Thomas said, causing Newt’s smile to grow. “I’m not that good at acting.”

Newt shrugged. “You have potential.”

“I’m hearing a lot of talking going on!” someone yelled from outside the door.

Without missing a beat or breaking eye contact, Newt yelled back, “I wouldn’t expect you to know about foreplay.”

Thomas gulped. 

“I’m not making you uncomfortable, am I, Thomas?” Newt asked, tilting his head.

Thomas shook his head no, not trusting himself to speak.

“It’s a silly party game, isn’t it? As if a bunch of liquored-up hormonal teens like ourselves would need an excuse to shack up with each other,” Newt said. 

Thomas thought he spoke like an eloquent book. He recalled seeing him reading things far more sophisticated than the books he’d see others read or read himself. Newt was an enigma.

“I haven’t been to many parties, to be honest,” Thomas said, trying not to cringe at himself.

“You’re not missing out,” Newt said. “The only highlight is this stuff.” He waved his cup. “But you don’t strike me as a drinker.”

Thomas managed a smile, trying to loosen up his limbs. “Not really.”

“Good,” Newt said, and looked shockingly sincere about it. “Don’t give in to peer pressure.”

There were a few moments of silence where Newt, ironically, took another sip. Thomas was desperate to fill it. “You were really great tonight.”

Newt pouted. “Eh. I gotta give my mum something to write home about, don’t I?”

Thomas was way more fascinated with Newt being British than he maybe should have been. “You grew up there, right?”

“Nope,” Newt said, then abruptly changed his voice to match Thomas’s. “Accent’s fake.”

That made Thomas burst into an embarrassing fit of laughter that definitely wasn’t proportional to how funny the joke was. But he’d never forget the way Newt’s eyes lit up at it. 

“I did. We only came here recently. To pursue better things, Mum said,” Newt said. “Better things turned out to be a high school production of _Noises Off.”_

“Do you want to be an actor?” Thomas asked. “You definitely could be.”

“That’s the dream, isn’t it?” Newt said. “I’ve had a few auditions here and there. We had this play recorded, though, so that’ll be good for the reel.” 

“That’s really cool,” Thomas said, a little too enthusiastically. “I think you’ll find something soon.”

“Thank you,” Newt said.

Suddenly, Thomas felt more at ease, as intimidating as Newt was. Here he was, talking to him for more than just a few fleeting seconds at a time. An actual conversation. “How long do you think it’s been?”

“I reckon we have a while,” Newt said. “Why? Sick of me already?”

“No,” Thomas said quickly. “I actually… It’s nice. This is the first real conversation I’ve had all night, really. And you’re cool.”

Newt laughed, making Thomas doubt himself again. “You’re cool too, then.”

Oh, thank god. 

Thomas had this awful yearning to get to know him better. Stay in touch after the play. Newt was popular, and Thomas wasn’t particularly unpopular but he didn’t have the same draw as Newt. As in, nobody would expect to see them together. 

“You’re the only cool person I’ve met from this whole thing,” Thomas said, trying to magically switch his energy to nonchalance. “I wish we put on a better show. We always get the boring ones.”

“Sure,” Newt said, and Thomas wasn’t sure what he was even referring to, but a glint shone in his eye. “People get so sentimental about these things. Long speeches about being a family, or saying the production was their life. Dramatic, if you ask me. If I’m going to get sappy about something, it’ll be an actual job. Not a few hours in a school watching people butcher their lines.”

Thomas forced a laugh. “People being me?”

“No,” Newt said, then considered, a smirk growing on his lips. “Well, at times. But you tried. I liked watching you.”

Thomas felt that last bit in his gut. “That’s a high honor, coming from you. But I think this’ll be the end of my acting career.” 

“Who will they cast when I’m gone, then?” Newt asked. He raised his voice. “Don’t let Dimitri get the leads.”

They heard a muffled “Hey!” from outside the door, and it made Thomas laugh out of nerves.

“Seriously, though,” Newt said, lowering his voice again, “he’s not very good.”

Newt was bitter. Too good for them all. Stuck up.

And it made Thomas putty in his hands. “He’s no you.”

Newt’s eyes trailed Thomas’ face. “Nobody is.”

Thomas’ lungs up and left his body at some point during their time in there, and he couldn’t seem to locate them now. “Wait,” he finally said. “You said you’re leaving?”

“Mm,” Newt said. “Soon enough.”

Thomas’ little fantasy of getting closer to Newt vanished before his eyes. “Oh. We’ll miss you, then.”

Newt’s expression, somehow, always had something guarding it. But Thomas found his stoicism mesmerizing. Even then, with bronzer accentuating his cheekbones, eyeliner making his eyes pop, and a balm on his lips, all comically exaggerated to help him be seen on stage, he was… striking. And not in a bad way.

“Two minutes!” someone called from outside. “Get some while you can!”

Newt finished off his drink, put the cup in the sink, then turned back to Thomas, smelling strongly of liquor. “Shall we?”

Thomas must have looked like a cartoon with the way his eyes popped out. “Shall we what?”

Newt’s smirk deepened. “Give them a show.”

Thomas didn’t know what that entailed, but saying no seemed criminal in that moment. “Okay.”

In the blink of an eye, Thomas was being pushed onto the door, Newt flush against his body. Thomas pushed his hips back into it, his heart hammering. 

Newt was grinning, so close to Thomas’ face, he couldn’t even take all of him in at once. “Sorry, Thomas,” he said loudly, “I just can’t control myself.”

Thomas was obviously supposed to speak, but his mouth was dry, and he thought his voice might crack if he tried. His whole brain was fried, in fact. 

“Touch me,” Newt said, and while it was wildly dramatic and definitely for the benefit of everyone outside, Thomas found himself compelled to do it.

So, somehow, his hand wound up on Newt’s chest. 

They both looked at it, then back at each other, and Thomas was so lightheaded, he thought he might faint right then and there. 

“Better,” Newt said. This time, quieter. To Thomas. Then, his voice raised again, but as he spoke, his hand came up to Thomas’ other arm, still pinned against the door. “You want me so bad, don’t you?”

Thomas wanted to pull him in and kiss him. It was the first time a thought had struck him so powerfully regarding a boy, but there was no mistaking it. 

“You know it,” Thomas managed to get out, except the joke fell flat. 

And there they were, staring into each other’s eyes, no room between them, and the humor sucked from the air. Newt’s eyes seemed to darken, and Thomas wanted to beg him to tell him what he was thinking. Except he wasn’t saying anything anymore, and his hand stalled on Thomas’ arm, and just when Thomas thought maybe—

The door unlocked, and they both jumped away from it. Thomas was sure his face was pale.

“Time’s up,” Clint said, looking between them with a hint of jealousy. “Have a good time?”

Thomas, still bewildered, looked to Newt. But somehow, it was like the last seven minutes didn’t happen. His careless smile was back, and he put a hand on Thomas’ shoulder.

“You rocked my world,” he said sarcastically, making everyone else laugh.

Thomas smiled, sure it looked as fake as it was.

“Pleasure doing business,” Newt continued, once it was clear Thomas had nothing to say. His hand coming off Thomas’ shoulder was among the most disappointing moments of his life. 

“I’m sure you say that to all the girls,” Thomas forced himself to say, earning another laugh. 

Newt winked, and just like that, he was making his way back towards the kitchen.

That night would haunt Thomas every day he saw Newt in the hall, the day he heard Newt was going back to England, and then, eventually, when he found out he’d landed his first big role. It never stopped. Not until that night at the bar.

Thomas’ subway stop comes, and he stands, collecting himself. 

Newt has been utterly unattainable from the moment they met. But, for some cruel reason, Thomas has been fooling himself into thinking otherwise just as long.

Besides, even if he has him in moments of pent up tension and short bursts of ill-advised bliss, Newt will never truly be his. 

But, god, does he want him.


	8. everytime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> newt makes things official

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: alcoholism and vomit

Now, getting drunk is actually quite difficult for Newt. In order to pull that off, he needs copious amounts of alcohol and an abysmal amount of water and food. That is to say—he drinks on an empty stomach. 

One would think he’d have ventured into the realm of drug use by now. And, well, he sort of experimented, but that was too unpredictable. And he had what he now thinks was a panic attack the first time he tried. 

Alcohol was something he could control, in a way. It took effort to get himself inebriated, and once he was, he was the Newt everyone wanted. The funny one. The charming one. The one that didn’t mind chatting up a girl and taking her back to her place.

Newt says a silent thanks to Alby’s strict exercise routine for keeping him from coming to this event tonight before he makes a beeline to the bar, only stopping to nod at anyone that tries to greet him. He’ll get to them. Just... not yet.

He finally makes it, giving the bartender a dazzling smile. “Vodka cranberry on the rocks, please?”

She must recognize him because her eyes light up as she takes in the order. She can’t be older than him, either. “Of course.”

Newt waits patiently while his drink is made, keeping his back to the crowd. If anyone comes up to talk to him before he has his social lubricant, it won’t be the most pleasant interaction. 

But luckily, he remains unbothered until his drink is being handed to him. “Thanks, love,” Newt says, taking out a generous tip. 

She shoves it into her pocket, cheeks turning rosy. “Thank you.”

“And keep them coming, if you don’t mind,” Newt says, adding a wink that makes her grin.

“On it.”

When he starts to walk away, he takes a swig so long, he knows he’ll be back for his second in a flash. Vodka tends to hit him the quickest.

He wrinkles his nose at the taste as he pulls the glass away, blinking hard. Not that it’ll matter two or three drinks in. At that point, it should taste like water.

“Newt,” he hears.

“That is the name my mother chose,” Newt responds, turning to the source.

He’s met with two guys he’s seen around before at events. They’re in some shitty teen show together, he thinks. 

They both shake his hands. “Winston,” one says. And the other, apparently, is “Zart.” Newt never seems to need to introduce himself.

“Nice venue, right?” Winston asks, staying close to Zart’s side.

Newt takes another sip, trying to maintain a straight face. “Mm. Sort of. Open bar is a plus, though.”

“Oh, totally,” Zart says. “So, how’s the show?”

 _Can they go away?_ “It’s great. How’s…” Honestly, he can’t even fake it. “What are you promoting now?”

“Movie. It’s a Netflix original,” Winston says excitedly. They seem like they expect Newt to be dazzled.

“Cool,” Newt says, taking another sip.

“Hi,” he hears from behind him.

Bloody hell.

Newt turns, feeling a slight numbness in his head. “Teresa,” he says, “have you met Winston and Zart?”

She’s clad in a sleek deep blue dress, her makeup and hair done to perfection. Objectively, she’s beautiful. But the sight of her makes Newt’s stomach turn.

“I haven’t,” Teresa says, smiling at them politely. “Hi, I’m Teresa.”

In a second flat, Winston becomes a bumbling idiot while Zart maintains a dopey look. And while they bombard her with questions, Newt downs the rest of his drink before asking to be excused for just a moment. A moment where he runs back to the bar, and the bartender already has a second ready for him. This’ll do nicely.

Now, a bit eased up, shoulders looser and charisma oozing from his alcohol-soaked pores, he doesn’t mind sauntering back up to the group. Teresa looks as if she’s never been more grateful to see a person.

“What’d I miss?” Newt asks, standing by her side.

“They were telling me about filming in Cape Town,” Teresa says. She’s an actress, but he’s starting to question her abilities with her obvious impatience. 

“Oh, I’d love to hear,” Newt says, waiting for his eyes to glaze over. He can see two outcomes. One, she gets so fed up, she leaves. Two, it just pisses her off. Either way, it’s a win.

But sadly, a short-lived one.

“Anyway, we have to do an interview,” Winston says, cutting Zart off from a story, “but it’s been great seeing you guys.”

Newt has never wanted random C-listers to stick around more. “Sure. You too.”

Then, he’s alone.

“They were nice,” Teresa says.

“You despised them,” Newt says, taking another sip.

“No, I didn’t!”

“Your eyes practically rolled back into your head when they started talking about the cast like you were an interviewer,” Newt says, making her laugh.

“I’m not very sociable. I hate these things, honestly,” Teresa says. “Makes me feel like I’m on the upper decks of the Titanic sometimes. These parties are expensive and silly.”

“This isn’t a fundraiser?” Newt asks.

“No,” Teresa laughs. “Do you even know why you’re here?”

“They all blur together,” Newt says, taking another sip. He’ll need a third. 

“It’s some producer’s birthday,” Teresa says. “I don’t remember which one.”

“I’ll prepare my ingenuine speech, then,” Newt says. 

The insufferable small talk goes on. How is the dog? When is your next show? How are _your_ dogs? And what makes it so awful to Newt is the fact that he knows she wants to talk about it. _It._ Them. What they are, what they’re doing. It’s what everybody wants to know.

He considers it. Telling her that they’re nothing. It won’t damage his status. As far as everyone knows, they were a thing for a moment, then dropped off.

But if it’s not her, then it’ll be someone else. Then the next unlucky girl to cross paths with Newt. One after another. At least Teresa isn’t annoying, right? She doesn’t deserve what Newt is doing to her. 

He finishes his second drink, and wow, were these heavy on the vodka. One more.

“Can I get you a drink?” Newt asks, blinking hard as if it’ll curb the effects he wants to feel. 

They wind up at the bar, and Newt runs through Vince’s checklist. After this, he’ll take her around, making sure they’re caught by every camera. After that, he’ll ask her if they should see more of each other. He’ll make sure someone hears. He’ll take her hand. He’ll whisper to her and make her laugh a private laugh, and everyone will know.

“Jeez,” Teresa laughs as Newt works on his third. “You’ll be slurring to the interviewers.”

Newt grins. “Can you blame me? Something has to get me through them.”

Skin slides against material. Her hand on his knee. “I can try?”

And his smile has never come harder to him. But he does it. “Shall we, then?”

Camera to camera, tangled together like some two-headed beast Newt will see in his nightmares. He can’t pretend that they’re friends. When he looks at her, the closest to his own genuine feelings for her he can find is his pity. So he’ll convince himself of the lie.

Teresa, finally, is dragged off for a moment for an interview, and Newt turns his back to everyone, chugging the rest of his drink. At this point, the taste has become static on his tongue. This should be enough. 

When Teresa comes back to him, he takes a mint out of his pocket. The least he can do is not reek of alcohol while talking to her. 

He guides her to an area with the greatest amount of ears available to listen. “You know,” he starts, “you look beautiful. I always like seeing you.”

The poor thing smiles. “I like seeing you too.”

“What if we saw more of each other?” Newt says, already knowing her answer. But, for appearances, “I mean, I’ll be in New York a while longer, and I thought maybe we could—”

“I’d love that,” Teresa says, the glee in her eyes taking over her voice. 

Newt tries not to look around to make sure someones heard. Instead, he waits for the first interviewer to approach him, keeping his arm around Teresa’s back. Stealing glances at her. Commenting on how wonderful her show is, and how good she is in it, though he’s never seen it. 

He keeps up this charade until he excuses himself curtly, walking with a steady pace and tilted ground to the toilet, where he promptly kneels over it and spills the contents of his stomach. 

The tile is especially cold, and it all looks so expensive, and suddenly, for the first time in forever, Newt feels he doesn’t belong in it. This suit. This party. This life.

 _What’s done is done,_ he reminds himself, shivering, wiping sweat from his forehead. Wiping tears from his eyes. _This is for my own good._

When he finally climbs out of the stall, he stumbles to the sink, stomach upside down as he washes his face. Now, he’s unbearably warm, like he’s come down with a fever. 

He should really eat.

“One more?” he asks the bartender.

The taste, now, hits him again. Everything is disgusting. He glances at some of the food trays on his way back over to Teresa, but it’s appalling. At least the drink goes down without effort, but his muscles seem to be on autopilot. 

He’s done what he came here to do, hasn’t he? When she lets him slot back in beside her, she looks around as she speaks, like she’s nervous to be asking.

“What were you going to do after this?” she asks, then finally looks back at him. “Were you busy?”

 _Ask her back to your place._ Come on, he’s done it already. He’s been through this. Nothing new. Go through the motions. He can hardly feel anything anyway. Turn the lights off. _Something._

Except the little voice in his head is starting to sound less like him. It was always _Newt_ saying these things to himself. But now, it’s morphing. It’s gruffer. Angrier. A tone he hardly ever uses. A tone belonging to his mother. Belonging to Vince.

“I, um,” Newt starts, his chest tightening, “I think I’ve got something early in the morning. Really, I only stayed this long for you.”

Her disappointment is saved by his last comment. “Thank you for rescuing me, then.”

“Any time,” Newt says, fighting to keep his voice steady. “I think I should head out, but I’ll see you soon.”

Teresa reaches up to hug Newt, and being touched right now is vile. But he hugs back, keeping a straight face. He keeps it as Teresa kisses his cheek. He smirks, taking her hand and kissing that, his consolation being the rush he makes for the door. 

When he gets back into his car, having stolen the glass from the hotel, he fumbles for his phone, downing the rest of his drink. 

***

That one wasn’t so bad. He could remember more of his notes, at least. 

He finished it. That’s pretty much all he can say for it. 

Thomas stretches as he gets out of his seat, rubbing at his tired eyes. His back cracks, and he grimaces. If he tells the teacher that he knows Newt, will it get him a pass? Extra credit? Otherwise, what’s the point of a famous friend? So far, he has nothing but stress to show for it.

Also, it should be a crime to have a test so late in the day when there’s another earlier the next day. Throws off the whole rhythm. Thomas checks the time. It’s really gotten quite late now. He’ll be lucky to be home before eleven. 

So, he walks in his own silence around the chaos of first his fellow students, then the streets. As he passes the park, staring at the lights shining from the fountain, there’s a buzz in his pocket. Then more. Is someone calling him? Nobody ever calls anymore.

He’s about to decline what’s likely to be a spam call when he sees the name, his already broken nerves frying on him.

“Hello?” he answers before he can give himself the time to wonder why he’s calling.

“Tommy,” he hears. “Come over. Where are you? I’ll pay. I can have the car come.”

Thomas’ heart in his throat, he frowns. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Where are you?”

“Where are _you?”_

“The car. On the way home. Come over,” Newt says, muffled. “Please.”

Thomas can hardly hear him over someone blasting their music nearby, but he could pick out his desperation from a mile away. “I…” What if something happened and he needs a friend? Thomas would be selfish for leaving him while he needed help. “Alright. I’ll take the subway.”

“Good,” Newt says, firmer now. “Perfect.”

Then, the line goes dead.

Thomas jogs to warm himself up, coming up on Newt’s building. Inside, of course, it’s much warmer, and his face must be flushed, and his outfit is a mess. These people here are going to grow to hate him if they don’t already.

The man blocking the elevator seems to recognize him, and not in a good way.

“Visiting,” Thomas says breathlessly. 

He just sighs, stepping aside and pressing the floor button for Thomas. All rich people are assholes. 

When he reaches Newt’s floor, he tries to regain himself. He could be walking into anything. Maybe he’ll need a shoulder to cry on or something. _Or maybe he and Teresa broke it off._ Thomas tries not to entertain the thought. Or what it could mean for him.

He knocks on the door, thinking of something to say. Thinking of what Newt might say.

And he’s just come up with something when the door flies open. He’s going to say it when Newt grabs him like he’s the first person he’s seen in years and kisses him hard, not even closing the door behind them.

Thomas, through his shock, tastes only bitterness. Alcohol.

It takes him a few seconds, but he pulls away, putting his hand on Newt’s chest like he did all that time ago. But this time, even with his suit, Newt is the one who seems a desperate wreck.

“Are you drunk?” Thomas asks, Newt’s hands on his lower waist.

“Sober as a nun,” Newt slurs, before going back to trying to kiss Thomas.

But Thomas pushes him back again. “What the fuck, Newt? What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing is wrong,” Newt says, a frustration flashing through his features. His eyes are red, along with his nose. 

“Did something happen?” Thomas asks.

“If you want to be a good friend, you’ll shut up,” Newt says. He meant it to be a lot stronger, Thomas is sure. But it falls flat, his voice shaking. 

“Jesus Christ,” Thomas breathes out as Newt leans down to kiss his neck. He takes Newt’s face in his hands, pulling him away. “I’m too good a friend.”

“What?” Newt asks. He’s so drunk, Thomas practically has to keep him standing up. 

“We’re going to the bedroom,” Thomas says, tugging him along.

“Finally,” Newt says, obliging happily. 

When they get to the bed, Newt pulls him back in. And Thomas lets him, pulling him onto the mattress. Then, he sits up.

“What’re you doing?” Newt asks. 

“Oh, I just need to freshen up, but you wait here, alright?” Thomas asks. 

Newt frowns. “Be quick.”

Thomas rolls his eyes once he’s back up, heading to the kitchen. Newt must have _something_ to eat. 

He scavenges until he’s found some Wheat Thins. Carbs should be good. They’ll have to do for now. Along with that, he goes for the water, catching a glimpse of an open bottle of whiskey on Newt’s counter. 

On his way back, he nearly trips before he stops himself short. Short of stepping on the little fuzzy thing at his feet.

Thomas can’t help but smile. The dog. He leans down, petting its head. “Sorry your owner is a wreck,” he whispers.

When he gets back to Newt’s room, he’s slumped back on his bed, looking half asleep, but now without a shirt. So, delicately, Thomas hands him the box.

“Think you can get some of those down?” he asks. 

“The hell do I look like?” Newt mumbles. “I’m not a child.”

“I didn’t say you were,” Thomas says, sitting beside him. “But we’re not doing _anything_ till you’ve eaten.”

“Fucking spoilsport, you are,” Newt says, with absolutely none of the force he meant it with. 

“Yeah, that’s me,” Thomas says, taking one from the box and popping it into his own mouth.

Newt seems to take this as some sort of invitation for himself now and eats one. Then, he looks back at Thomas. “Can we have sex now?”

“If you’re not drunk, eating those shouldn’t be a problem,” Thomas says.

Newt narrows his already closing eyes, grabbing a few more as Thomas gets into bed with him. He sits, legs outstretched, eating with him, wondering how on earth he got here. Newt sips his water once or twice, blinking hard and staring into space.

Then, finally, he falls asleep, box in hand.

Thomas sighs, taking it from him and having another. What a mess this is. Newt’s gelled hair is sticking in all different directions, and asleep, he still looks like he’s frowning. What could have happened that he got this hammered? Unless it was just for fun. But he alluded to some sort of drinking problem, didn’t he?

Suddenly, Thomas remembers this one episode of Breaking Bad that really messed him up where that girl Jane dies in her sleep because she was choking or something. Is Newt drunk enough to do that? No, he can’t be. But what if he is and Thomas just left him here? He couldn’t live with himself.

He takes out his phone, going to Minho’s contact, debating what lie to tell before finally settling on the truth. This wasn’t part of the NDA. 

Newt breathes softly next to him, and Thomas decides that he’ll only stay a little, just to make sure he’s okay, then he’ll go home. He has a midterm tomorrow, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wasn't even sober when i wrote this so... here's hoping it's good


	9. positions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> newt and thomas try to work out what they're doing. rated r.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i stole a joke from buwygfib (my first ari inspired fic) as an easter egg.

Newt nuzzles his head into the warmth, trying to cover every part of his aching face in it. It’s comforting. Exactly what he needs. His arm wraps around tighter.

Wait.

He opens his eyes to brown, feathery hair. Waking up in bed next to someone isn’t exactly unfamiliar. Waking up cuddling someone, however, is less of a normality.

Newt blinks hard, adjusting to the low light, and then suddenly, his nerves are calmed. It’s Thomas. But how the hell did he get here?

He peels his arm away, settling back as far as he can get. What happened last night? Thomas surely wasn’t at that party. Wasn’t he supposed to go home with Teresa? 

Poor Thomas. Newt seriously fucked him again, in multiple ways. What if he really does want a friendship and Newt keeps ruining it?

Before he can ponder that further, Thomas begins to stir, and Newt holds in a sigh. Here we go with another awkward morning.

“Tommy?” Newt whispers, voice hoarse.

Thomas’ eyes shoot open at that like he hadn’t realized he was here either. But, then, he settles. “Drink water. I left it on your nightstand.”

“You—” Newt cuts himself off, looking to his nightstand, where there is, indeed, a glass of water. He grabs it. How does he ask Thomas what happened without sounding like a jerk? 

“Are you feeling alright?” Thomas asks, rubbing at his eyes.

Newt contemplates this, sipping his water that burns his throat. “No.”

Thomas nods. “I figured.”

Newt goes to ask his question, but as he moves, he registers something else. Pants. On him. He reaches down, feeling, and they’re the same ones he was wearing last night. Checking Thomas, he’s fully clothed. Even a shirt.

“We didn’t have sex?” Newt blurts out.

Thomas frowns. “Of course we didn’t, you were hammered. Didn’t stop you from trying, but I got you to bed.”

Because he was hammered. Thomas didn’t do anything because Newt wasn’t okay. “Then… then why are you here still?”

“I was worried,” Thomas says, closing his eyes again, face towards the ceiling. “I thought you’d, like, choke in your sleep or something. So I stayed, and I guess I dozed off at some point.”

Newt doesn’t know how to process this all. “How long did you sleep?”

“Probably three or four hours,” Thomas says sleepily. “But you’re still here, so I guess I did my job. And don’t worry, I fed your dog.”

Newt blinks. He stayed over out of worry. Someone cares enough to do that for him?  _ Thomas  _ cares enough?

“Anyway,” Thomas says, “keep sipping your—”

The rest of his sentence is cut off by a kiss that muffles Thomas’ words with a surprised noise from his throat. It shocks Newt just as much, as if something else took over and wouldn’t let him go until he was capturing Thomas’ lips with his.

But, after a moment, Thomas pulls away, searching Newt’s face. “You don’t have to do this, you know,” he finally says, fully awake now.

“I didn’t think I did,” Newt says, and he only realizes it’s the truth as it’s coming out.

Thomas’ hesitance stalls Newt for a frightening moment. “You never told me if you’re with Teresa.”

Newt shakes his head, and suddenly, through his frustration, all he wants is to give Thomas reassurance. Nothing else matters. “I don’t even like girls. Now would you shut it with the Teresa talk? Kinda kills the mood.”

“You don’t?” Thomas asks. Realization seems to dawn. “Oh, Newt…”

“Relax. I’m gay, not dying,” Newt says, placing a hand on Thomas’ chest. “Can we go back to doing what we were doing?”

Thomas’ eyes trail over Newt’s face with a sympathy he’d normally loathe. But, with him? It seems so genuine. Not so much pity, but an understanding nobody else has offered him. It could make Newt cry, with Thomas’ knit brows and his lips pulled tight. 

And then, Thomas is pulling him in by the back of his head, kissing him in a way that feels so intimate, Newt has to force himself not to jump away. Not because he doesn’t want it, or because it doesn’t feel good. It feels… perfect, really. But that’s why he wants to stop, isn’t it?

Instead of doing that, Newt climbs on top of Thomas, getting as close as possible. Thomas’ thumb caresses his cheek, and Newt is determined to kiss this boy into the mattress so hard that they both forget he’s too good for Newt’s damaged heart.

When he lays flatter against him, he’s suddenly acutely aware of Thomas’ crotch area, and he breaks their kiss, eyebrows raised and smirking. “Blimey.”

“Shut up,” Thomas says, pulling him back in.

Newt takes advantage of the situation, pushing his hips against Thomas’, swallowing any noises Thomas makes as he deepens the kiss, forcing Thomas’ head back. 

It’s terrifying; the way he could live in this moment. Newt leaves a trail of kisses down Thomas’ neck, then lifts his shirt to continue it, his ring-adorned fingers feeling every inch of the sweet boy below him. 

He doesn’t normally speak much during these things. Too intimate. Too familiar. 

But he can’t stop himself this time. “You’re so beautiful,” Newt all but whispers.

Thomas tightens his grip on Newt’s hair, tugging it. “God help me.”

Newt grins wickedly, privately agreeing with the sentiment. He can’t think about anything but this. Right now, this has to be it. 

When he pulls Thomas’ pants down his legs, he watches Thomas’ stomach muscles tighten and arms flex where they lay now on the bed, propping himself up to watch Newt work him with precision. 

Newt licks his lips and tries to show Thomas it all. His gratitude, his anguish, his dysfunction, and his sloppy, complicated affection without saying a word, lips wrapped around him. 

He can’t explain it. Why it feels so good to make Thomas feel good. Physicality has never been Newt’s love language—it’s usually a distraction, according to Dr. Paige. But right now, it doesn’t feel that way. It feels like this is the only method of letting Thomas know that he’s grateful. And besides that, he wants this. Badly.

This is how it’s supposed to feel.

The thought sticks in his head like a mantra, as Thomas finishes, as Newt climbs back up him to kiss him, as Thomas hungrily takes hold of him as if he’s afraid he’ll disappear as he always does. 

He tries to push it away, but then the familiar clench in his heart takes over, turning these touches cold and his face warm. It’s supposed to be like this. He’s not supposed to feel detached from his partner and his own body every time they…

Newt breaks from his kiss with Thomas, last night coming back in waves. He’s with Teresa now. Officially. And he’s going to have to do this, lie to her, over and over. 

But, looking at this boy in front of him now, lips all red and eyes wide, he can’t tell him.

And he can’t lose him. 

“Thank you for staying,” Newt says breathlessly, trying to cover up for his sudden stall.

Thomas nods. “Can I, um,” he starts, looking like he can’t find his train of thought. It makes Newt smile. “Can I ask what happened? Last night.”

“Being me comes with a lot of expectations,” Newt says, praying to leave it at that.

“But the way you looked—” Thomas stops himself, maybe sensing the dread that Newt knows even he isn’t a good enough actor to fight against. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do if it’s hurting you that much.”

“It’s not hurting me,” Newt says hurriedly, before leaning back forward to kiss Thomas again. 

But Thomas breaks it only a moment later. “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?” Newt asks.

“Use...  _ this  _ to keep from having a real conversation?” Thomas asks. “I took a psych class last semester, I learned all kinds of shit. And I’m smart enough to know when someone’s upset.”

Newt blinks. “You know, I do pay a therapist to tell me all of this, right? So you don’t have to.”

“Are you going to tell them about last night, then?” 

“Of course I will,” Newt lies.

“Well, then will you actually do anything about it? Or are you just going to listen to what you’re doing wrong to yourself and call it a day?” Thomas asks.

And Newt smiles as Thomas’ expression hardens against him. Not because he’s happy, no, but because some sick part of him loves to ruin things. It gives him a rush, being right about how fucked up he is. 

“I do whatever she tells me to do,” Newt says. He tilts his head. “You look good when you’re mad at me.”

Thomas’ ears go pink. “I’m not mad.”

“Sure you are,” Newt says, sliding a hand up his chest. “I can’t do anything right, can I? Can’t take care of myself, can’t make anyone happy, can’t stop being an asshole.”

He shakes his head. “I just want you to make  _ yourself _ happy.”

“That  _ is  _ what I’m doing,” Newt points out. “But tell me off anyway.”

“Are you  _ enjoying  _ this?” Thomas asks.

“Everyone always thinks I’m joking about my thing for degradation,” Newt says, before kissing Thomas’ neck again.

“You have serious issues,” Thomas says, hands snaking into Newt’s hair.

Newt smiles against his skin. “You’re only helping me out here,” he says, then sucks on Thomas’ neck until his hair is being tugged at again.

When he looks back at Thomas again, the awe he finds in his expression is intoxicating. “You—” he stutters, swallowing before he speaks again. “You’re un-fucking-believable.”

Newt smirks, bringing his lips to Thomas’ ear. “Why don’t you flip yourself over and tell me that again?”

***

Thomas smiles on Newt’s lips, pulling him closer, hands in his curls. He really should be studying now. Not making out with the guy he swore off. But damn if it doesn’t feel good. 

He never thought he’d say it, but he feels something extremely similar to sympathy for Newt. He’s  _ gay.  _ And he’s being forced to pretend he’s with all these girls. For what? The public eye? It’s so unfair. Nobody deserves that. And, clearly, he’s not dealing with it as well as he likes to say he is. 

So, maybe he needs Thomas. Why else would he call? He asked for him the other night too. 

The night he was seen with that guy at the bar.

Thomas pulls away from the kiss, but can’t bring himself to fully relinquish their contact. Newt’s body against him, skin to skin, warmer than he’s felt in months.

“Aris,” Thomas breathes out, almost against his will.

“Name’s Newt, actually,” Newt says, trying to lean back in.

Thomas doesn’t let him. “Did you… take him here?”

Finally, Newt gives in. But instead of laughing like Thomas expects, his face falls ever so slightly. “I did.”

Thomas nods, his heart quickening with anxiety at the thought. “Let me guess. Bad night?”

Newt’s jaw hardens. Then, he nods back.

“And last night—that was also rough,” Thomas says. He scoffs, but there’s nothing behind it but the need to cover his hurt. “Right.”

“What do you want from me, Thomas? I texted you, didn’t I?” Newt asks.

“And I didn’t come, so you—” Thomas stops himself. He’s about to make the same mistake he’s  _ been  _ making for days now. Accusing Newt of being himself. “You know what? Forget it. That’s who you are, right? I’m supposed to know that you only want to call me when you need distracting.”

“What the hell?” Newt asks, sitting up. “We’re friends, are we not?”

“I don’t think we are,” Thomas says, hoping it stings Newt as much as it’s stinging him. “Whatever it is, whatever  _ this  _ is… You know what day I liked the most with you? Since we started talking?”

Newt’s expression remains unchanged.

“The day you brought me to see your play. You told me things about yourself. The  _ real  _ you. And believe it or not, I care about you,” Thomas says, forcing it through his closing throat. “I just don’t think that goes both ways.”

Newt blinks, lips pulled in a tight line. Is he just not going to say anything?

“Whatever,” Thomas says, sitting up, making Newt do the same. He reaches for his boxers at the end of the bed, now highly embarrassed by the prospect of putting them on in front of him. “Sorry I said anything.”

The silence as he gets into his boxers then his jeans is piercing. It creates a sort of smog in the room that fills Thomas’ lungs, choking him up and making him want nothing more than to leave as fast as he can.

“Fuck.”

Thomas turns at the noise to see Newt’s head in his hands. He drops them slowly to look at Thomas, and he’s so utterly  _ tired. _ Newt’s whole face drags with it, like he hasn’t truly rested in years and every other face Thomas has seen of his has simply been a mask. 

“What?” Thomas asks quietly.

“I—” Newt stops shaking his head. The rest, he addresses to the blanket. “I care about you, alright? And if I didn’t mean that, I wouldn’t say it, so don’t tell me I don’t.”

Thomas swallows. “You have a funny way of showing it.”

“I know,” Newt says. “I’m not like you. Or anyone, apparently.”

“You could say that again,” Thomas mutters.

“Do you think I cheapen this?” Newt asks. “Our… friendship.”

Thomas furrows his brow, but nods.

“Shit,” Newt says, huffing. He pauses for a long moment, staring off. “I like you, Tommy. You’re kind. You’re not like anyone else, either. In a good way.” He looks up at Thomas. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Do with what?” Thomas asks, ignoring the way his heart did cartwheels at that first bit.

“The sensible part of me is telling me I need to tell you to get as far away from me as possible,” Newt says, so painfully vulnerable, Thomas feels as if he shouldn’t even be listening. “But the selfish part knows you’re the only thing that’s made me feel good in months.”

“Maybe you’d feel good more often if you did what’s right for yourself instead of what the public wants,” Thomas points out.

“Are you asking me to out myself?” Newt asks, tilting his head.

“No,” Thomas says quickly. “Shit.”

“Mhm,” Newt hums. “Some things, I can’t do. But if you can’t do this, by all means. Hell knows I deserve it.”

“Don’t you mean God knows?”

“All things considered, I think Hell is the one paying attention now,” Newt says, the corner of his mouth weakly twitching upwards. 

It’s easily one of the saddest things Thomas has ever heard. He truly takes in the boy before him. “You’ve put yourself through the fucking wringer, haven’t you?”

Newt scoffs halfheartedly. “There’s a word for it.”

Thomas hesitates, then sits back down. “I know we’re not... dating or anything. I know that.”

His eyebrows lift. “Is there a but?”

He can’t bring himself to say it.

“But you don’t like seeing me with someone else,” Newt says, stealing the thought directly from Thomas’ head.

He takes a long moment to consider Newt. How frustrating it is to talk circles around each other. How gratifying it is when they put it aside and enjoy each other’s company for even a little while. How bad it feels when he realizes how different they really are. How good it feels to be with him in spite of it.

And it feels good. Thomas hasn’t exactly been celibate since getting to college, so he’s been around the block a few times. But nobody in all his years has ever come close to Newt. The way it feels to be close to him, or the thrill he gets from just a grin or the touch of his hand.

Any time they’ve been together, Thomas’ judgment disappears altogether and is replaced by the singular fantasy he projects onto Newt as he breathes out his name. The fantasy of  _ Newt _ being  _ his.  _ Because he knows just as well as Newt must that Thomas is his, any time he wants him.

“I can’t ask you to change who you are or to do anything you don’t want to do,” Thomas finally says. “So, I don’t know what to do either.”

“Well, do you want to leave?”

Thomas shakes his head.

“Do you still think I’m a dick?”

Thomas shakes his head. “Do you want me to leave?”

Newt shakes his head.

“Do you realize the only person you’re a dick to is yourself?”

Newt just stares at him. “If that were true, you wouldn’t be upset right now.”

So, Newt wants him to stay. Thomas wants to stay. Thomas doesn’t want to see Newt with anyone else. Newt is Newt. A true impasse. 

Thomas manages a weak smile. “I think there’s only one thing we can do.”

“What?”

“Be friends,” Thomas says. 

“We just tried that,” Newt says, frowning.

“But this time, we know where we stand,” Thomas says. It makes sense in his head, and his mouth isn’t working with it right now, but he tries anyway. “Look. We’re talking about all of this, but we still hardly know each other, right? If we knew each other more, maybe this would all go away on its own.”

“Platonically?” Newt asks, a twinge of disappointment in his voice. 

Thomas pauses. “I want to say yes.”

Now, Newt’s lips slowly spread into a grin. “But I’m just so irresistible, you can’t make any promises.”

Thomas rolls his eyes, praying the heat in his cheeks doesn’t show. “I’m not the one that starts it.”

Newt shrugs. “I just work with what you give me.”

And Thomas gets this overwhelming urge to kiss him. He knows Newt wouldn’t mind. But he can’t. Not like this. “Are you flirting with me, or is that just how you talk to people?”

“A little bit of both,” Newt says.

“Yeah, well,” Thomas says. He fights to keep his eyes on Newt’s. “Tread lightly.”

Newt’s eyebrows raise. “Are you trying for round three? I thought we were supposed to be friends!”

As tempting as it is, Thomas grins. “Fuck you.”

“Yeah, alright,” Newt says, returning it. “So, we’re getting to know each other?”

“I guess so.”

“And in more than just the biblical sense,” Newt says. He nods to himself. “Well, let’s do it while I feed Bark.”

“Bark? Is that what you named her?”

“Long story,” Newt says, reaching to the floor for his pants.

They move into the living room once Thomas is dressed and Newt is half-dressed, and as Newt feeds the dog that seems to like Thomas much more than she likes Newt, they talk.

First, it’s just little things. Things Newt likes to do in New York. How Thomas got here. Then, things like Newt’s school experience. Like how he actually liked being with kids his age, then his mother pulled him out and made him feel outcasted. Thomas doesn’t have anything quite as interesting to share as he does, but when he tells Newt about his high school years and college so far, he’s glued. He must really feel that loss of his childhood.

“Ah,” Newt says, while Thomas talks about a particularly messy party he attended, “I’ve been to plenty of those. Of course, the drugs and alcohol are more expensive, but nobody’s more dignified.” 

“Yeah?” Thomas asks.

“Would you believe my mum  _ wanted  _ me to go? Alone? From as young as I was being invited. I think I was seventeen, the first one. I remember being uncomfortable because a lot of older women would make comments,” Newt says, laughing halfheartedly. “But I was excited to be there because I was a kid. I liked feeling like I was one of them. But I was nervous. Like I wasn’t… interesting enough, or something.” 

Thomas nods. “It’s a lot for a kid.”

Newt smiles, petting Bark’s head like he’s searching for a distraction. “It’s why I started drinking so much. Made me more interesting. At least that’s what I’d hear from people.”

“That’s terrible,” Thomas says softly. How anyone could let a kid base his self-worth on whether or not he was drunk is beyond him.

He doesn’t look at Thomas. “I wanted them to like me. And I wanted to be whoever I had to be to achieve that.”

“But you were so young; you didn’t know who you even  _ were  _ yet. How are you supposed to figure that out when you’re constantly trying to be someone different?” Thomas asks.

“That is the question, isn’t it?” Newt says humorlessly. “I am who they want me to be. I don’t think I’ve got an agenda in the matter.”

“You wouldn’t even know if you did,” Thomas says. They’re both petting Bark, and Thomas’ fingers brush the side of Newt’s hand, making them both pause. “When did you stop?”

Newt puts his hands in his lap. “Stop what?”

“Drinking,” Thomas says, praying it isn’t an overstep. “When and why?”

Another laugh. “When did Vince decide, or when did I?”

“Both,” Thomas says. Then adds, “If that’s alright.”


	10. get well soon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> newt's origin story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: alcoholism and vomit

Newt clears his throat, shifting in his spot as his smile threatens to falter. He’s already opened up so much today, he’s emotionally exhausted. Dr. Paige would be thrilled with him. Aside from only getting out half the things he wanted to say.

“I’d been in LA. I was twenty, almost twenty-one. And I suppose you could say things were good.”

Newt had somewhat of a schedule, during his time in LA. Wake up. Drink with or for breakfast—something light, though, that would keep him from falling back asleep but minimize his anxiety. Go to work—whether it was filming, a photoshoot, or press. Find any acquaintance available that night—he didn’t consider anyone a friend but Alby. Go to a club or a bar. Get anywhere from tipsy to blackout drunk. Find anyone that could distract him for the night. Repeat. 

Alby was also in LA at the time, and he almost never said yes to Newt’s invitations. In fact, it was the only thing that ever brought Newt hesitance. Any night he broke his routine, it would be to watch a movie at Alby’s, or get dinner with him. Of course, he always had his flask. But it would be a nice change of pace from the club scene.

But the thing Newt liked the most was noise. The music from the club. The flashing of cameras and screaming of fans. The white noise created by the dulling of his senses as the alcohol would seep into his bloodstream and drown his thoughts. Sometimes, thinking would be more dangerous than the damage he did to his liver.

One night, Alby  _ did  _ agree to come with him to a club. Newt, secretly tipsy already on the phone, had begged him, saying it would be an early birthday present. He’d just been put onto this one girl for PR since they both had projects coming out soon, and he needed Alby’s particular brand of soothing but couldn’t take the chance of not having the loudness of the club. Luckily, Alby said yes.

Vince was in town, of course, and lived two doors down from where Newt was staying. Newt had knocked on his door, telling him where he was going, and Vince eyed him. 

“Are you drunk already?”

“Ever heard of pre-gaming?” Newt had responded, grinning. 

“Just look presentable tomorrow,” Vince said.

Newt grinned to himself in the car, pleased with his persuasive abilities. Alby would be meeting him, and he’d have a good night, and then he’d be able to face the rest of the week with a new outlook.

When he got there, he didn’t worry much about being recognized, because everyone at this club was usually  _ someone,  _ and if not, they didn’t want to bother anyone famous. They’d make advances at most, but Newt could handle that. He’d usually just dance with them until he could slip away into the crowd.

He stopped right before the doors past the photographers to check his phone.

**Alby: Sorry man, running a little late. I’ll keep you posted.**

Keep you posted. Newt’s chest hollowed out. That was usually Alby’s way of flaking on someone. First, he’s running late, then something comes up, then he’s out completely. 

“Fuck,” Newt muttered to himself, turning his phone off. He hit the side of it against his head a few times, squeezing his eyes shut. Then, he remembered he was in public.

A girl had been watching him from across the overhang as she smoked.

“Work,” he’d said, waving his phone awkwardly before he ran in.

Usually, this atmosphere was the only thing with the power to help him. Tonight, it felt oppressive. 

He made a beeline for the bar, squeezing between bodies that annoyed the shit out of him by simply being there. The music was loud, but instead of getting rid of his thoughts, it seemed to amplify them, mixing and making neither of them intelligible. Just shouts.

Newt all but shoved someone off of their barstool, taking their place. Everything here was posh. White, cushioned stools. A chandelier. Marble floors. Black and white couches. 

“Hey!” Newt yelled to the bartender. They didn’t card anyone here. He leaned over. “What’s the strongest shit you have?”

He chugged it the moment he got it, forcing himself not to gag at the taste. Luckily, he’d gotten a chaser. But he made a face, gritting his teeth and praying it worked quickly. 

And, well. It did. 

Newt was in and out the rest of the night. He’d ordered other drinks, too, without memory of doing so. But he always had  _ something  _ in his hands. Some may have been ordered for him. Some not.

The first thing he remembered was going onto the dance floor. A girl came up to him, but he couldn’t make out any features of hers. They danced for a while, then she’d turned to him, getting so close, there was no doubt she could smell the alcohol on his breath. Nonetheless, she kissed him, and all Newt could register was the feeling of someone against him. He leaned into it, drink still in hand, and when she pulled away, she grinned at him. Then, upon seeing his face, her smile disappeared. Newt couldn’t feel his, so he had no clue what it looked like, but whatever it was scared her away. He kept drinking.

The next thing he remembered was finding a guy with a bright red snapback. Newt kept an ongoing log of young Hollywood. The twenty-somethings. He didn’t know  _ all  _ of them by heart. Mostly just the ones that weren’t straight. 

When he spotted the boy, he sauntered over. Probably stumbled, if he was being honest.

“Jeff!” he’d yelled, catching his attention. “How are you, man?”

Jeff chuckled. “Hey, uh. Newt, right? Have we met?”

“Nope,” Newt said. “Better late though, right?”

“Right,” Jeff said, looking him over.

“You know, I always see you around,” Newt said, waving to the club. “And I wonder what you’re doing in a place like this.”

“What do you mean?”

“So many eyes, right?” Newt asked, getting closer. “You can’t have any fun.”

Jeff nodded slightly. “It depends on your definition of fun.”

Newt smirked, maintaining his eye contact and taking a slow sip of his drink. When he pulled it away from his mouth, he tilted his head. “What kind of fun do you like to have?”

He lit up inside as Jeff licked his lip subtly, looking around them. “It can be fun if you know where to go.”

“Where’s that?” Newt asked.

Jeff did one more look around before turning, guiding Newt through the club and down a hallway. Past the toilets. To a lounge they’re let into immediately. Through that lounge. Down a shorter hallway.

They stopped at another restroom—if you could call it that. There was the usual equipment across the room, but when you walked in, sinks, a couch, a vanity, and nobody standing there waiting for a tip. 

Jeff turned and locked the door as Newt finished off his drink.

“Here,” he’d said.

Newt put his empty glass on a counter. “A bit classy for what I want to do to you,” he said, coming to a stop in front of Jeff. “But it’ll do.”

Jeff was good company. Granted, they didn’t exactly speak much, but they both came prepared. After, though, Jeff got clingy. He kept kissing Newt, holding him there like they were about to cuddle on the couch inside a fucking toilet. 

Tonight, Newt couldn’t take that. Not enough moving. Too much opportunity to think.

He sat up, wiping his mouth and realizing he’d sobered up. “You smoke?”

“No,” Jeff said, sitting up with him. “Do you?”

“Mhm,” Newt lied. “You think they’d let me smoke in here?”

“Not without setting that off,” Jeff said, pointing to the smoke alarm. “You should go outside.”

“Right,” he said, pulling his pants mostly up as he went to the sink, wetting a paper towel. He looked at Jeff in the mirror. “You ever think about it?”

“About what?” Jeff said, not seeming keen on getting up. 

“Telling people who you are,” Newt said, looking away.

Jeff laughed. “Yeah, but no. I can’t.”

Newt assumed that meant nobody would hear about this. “Yeah,” he said, tossing the paper in the bin. “Me neither.”

Immediately after leaving, Newt got another one of those strong drinks. 

The third thing he remembers is less of a moment than it was a feeling. One that came over him so powerfully, he couldn’t take it. Anger. Just raw, painful anger that ripped through whatever he had left of a heart. 

A girl came up to him at a point and he let her flirt. People were so fucking predictable. Everyone was. He understood them all so well, it drove him mad. He knew why they did what they did and said what they said. He knew how they’d react to him. How to adapt to it. And disappointing them became  _ fun.  _ Like if he could mess it up, they’d stop being such robots to him.

“Sorry, love,” he’d said when she asked for his number. “I’m seeing someone.”

She’d shrugged. “Is she here?”

Newt laughed, but now he was impatient. “I don’t date fans.”

“I’m not a fan,” she’d said, voice grating.

“Then I don’t fuck groupies,” he said, turning back around. He sipped on his drink until he was sure she was gone. And then, he was gone too.

The rest was flashes. The dance floor. Another girl coming over to dance. Letting her. A man. Newt’s drunken anger as someone began yelling. 

“She came over to me,” he remembers mumbling. 

The man kept yelling, and Newt rolled his eyes, which were partially already rolled back. 

“Are you fucking listening to me?” the guy yelled while the girl let him.

“Yeah, I’m listening,” Newt slurred, taking another sip. “Your girlfriend started grinding on me and you’re a cunt. Got it loud and clear.”

Newt remembers a distant pain. Broken glass. Yelling. Arms grabbing at him. Claustrophobia. 

Then, “Newt? Newt! Jesus, man. Newt!”

Newt forced his eyes open a crack. He was on a couch, slumped over. And someone was next to him.

“Bloody hell,” Newt said, hand coming up to the side of his head, which throbbed. But everything else was blurry. Well, except for the man beside him. “Alby!”

“What happened?” Alby asked.

“Dunno,” Newt said, closing his eyes again.

“No, no,” Alby said, shaking his shoulder. “We’re getting out of here.”

“Why? I was having fun,” Newt said.

The next thing he knew, he was on his own couch, Vince and Alby standing over him. Oh, and a medic. 

“Take him in tomorrow. Might be a concussion,” he heard.

“Fuck off,” he said. “I’m fine.”

“Thanks, we will,” Vince said to the guy. 

Newt kept his eyes shut after that while they took turns chastising him for getting this drunk and getting himself hurt. Apparently, photos were taken, but Newt knew he did nothing wrong, so he would be painted as the victim. Not that he didn’t deserve a good punch.

“I’ve had enough,” Vince says. “You’re always fucked up. All the time. All the time! It has to stop. Now. I’m putting you in AA.”

“Do whatever you want,” Newt mumbled through his pounding skull. “I’m not going.”

“If you don’t clean up your act, you’re gonna lose everything,” Vince said. 

“Oh, really? How?”

“I’m going to drop you as a client.”

Newt opened his eyes at that. “You can’t.”

“I can,” Vince said, and Newt knew that look. He was serious. 

“I don’t have a fucking problem,” Newt said, weaker now.

“You’re an alcoholic!”

“I function, don’t I?” 

“Can I talk to him for a second?” Alby asked Vince. 

Vince huffed and walked away, and Alby sat beside Newt. 

“Listen,” he started, “I know how taxing this whole thing can be. You can talk to me about it. But you can’t go on like this. I can’t stand seeing it anymore. I think therapy could be good for you, if not AA. I’d be where you are right now if I didn’t have my therapist.”

“I don’t have any problems to talk about,” Newt said.

Alby just looked at him. “Let’s make a deal.”

“What?”

He lowered his voice. “I’ll convince him to give you a break from the stunts if you agree to focus on sobriety and therapy instead.”

Newt swallowed hard, but this throat was sore. Now, it got worse as his eyes began to sting. “He wouldn’t agree.”

“Let me try,” Alby said. “Please.”

And Alby, Newt’s hero, pulled it off. Vince agreed. No more stunts until Newt got back on his feet.

Newt started up therapy with Dr. Paige, but he hated it. At first. He barely said anything, insisting things were fine. Vince would do regular checks in his place to make sure he didn’t have any alcohol in there. He confiscated his flask. He asked him where he was going every time he moved.

And it drove him insane.

Newt was thriving with his routine, in a messed up way. He had it for a reason. And now, it was gone, and he hadn’t a clue what to focus on. What to do in the morning. What to do at night. His only friend was Alby, but he couldn’t lean on him for sobriety.

So, he started lying. He found restaurants that didn’t advertise a bar, then order as much as they’d let him. He’d go anywhere he was invited to sneak drinks there. He’d buy those cheap, thumb-sized bottles of things and keep them in his jacket pockets, then sock drawers when Vince came to check. 

It was almost never enough to get drunk. Sometimes barely enough to feel. Those nights angered him. Made him hate Vince. Hate Alby. Hate his life.

But the last straw for him, personally, was the day Alby invited Newt to a get together at his place.

Alby was a New Yorker, but living in LA for the time being, so his place was small and temporary. He was sensible. His friends were not.

Everyone that came brought liquor and everyone that brought it drank it. And there was a lot of it and them. Newt’s anxiety spiked the moment he arrived, deciding to focus on finding Alby. 

He was drinking, since he was a normal, responsible adult, and talking to some guy. Newt cut in, and Alby’s face dropped.

“Dude, I didn’t know so many people were gonna bring—” he stopped himself. “Are you alright to be here?”

Newt laughed. “You think I need a nanny? I’m fine.”

Alby smiled, worry still present in his eyes. “Alright. I have plenty of virgin drinks. Nobody will know. You’re much more fun when you’re sober.”

Newt tried to smile back. 

When Alby was swept into another conversation, Newt looked around, trying not to think about the pain in his chest. He couldn’t ask Alby not to drink. But seeing him drink was a reminder. He was alone in being this fucked in the head. Everyone else here manages, but when it’s him, it’s a problem. It’s isolating. Embarrassing. 

He found the couch through all the bodies and sat on the last seat, taking out his phone, trying his best to look bored rather than whatever  _ this  _ is. 

“Newt!” 

He looked up, and some guy he doesn’t know sat on the armrest beside him. “Hi.”

“What’s good, bro? Nobody will do shots with me and I know you’re a fuckin’ king,” he said, knocking into Newt’s arm.

“Oh,” Newt said, looking around for Alby. “I don’t know.”

“Come on! It’s just tequila,” he said, handing Newt a shot glass. 

Newt took it, looking down into the liquid. It wasn’t a lot. Similar to what he snuck. One wouldn’t kill him, right? Alby never had to know.

“Alright,” Newt said.

The guy cheered, counting them down before they both took their shots. He grinned at him, grabbing Newt around the shoulders with sweaty hands and shaking. 

“Another?” he asked.

“Tequila gives me a headache,” Newt forced himself to say.

“Vodka then!” the guy said, disappearing into the crowd.

Newt groaned, shutting his eyes tight. Maybe after this one, he could lose this guy and find Alby again. He’d hold him accountable. 

The guy came back, giving Newt the other shot, and he downed it before he could count them down. 

“Nice,” he said. 

“Yeah,” Newt said, “I gotta go find someone.”

He walked away, his heart racing. If he could find Alby, it would be fine. He could stick to him. Alby would understand.

And, well, he found Alby. On a different couch. Some girl’s hand on his chest and lips on his mouth.

Newt stopped in his tracks, stomach-turning. He wasn’t in love with Alby, or anything. But he was attached—he knew that. And he couldn’t pull him away from this. Newt didn’t own him. Newt was a chore. One Alby didn’t want to deal with that night.

He turned around, breath catching.  _ Shit.  _

His anxiety was getting worse by the day, and he couldn’t figure out why, aside from the obvious lack of inebriation. Sure, his head stopped hurting so much, and his stomach could actually handle food now, but the other stuff… 

Newt’s eyes welled up, and he speed-walked through the crowd until he could find the first open space available. That space turned out to be the kitchen.

He tried to get air into his lungs, but they wouldn’t comply. His shaking hands fumbled for his phone for something to do, but there was nothing there waiting for him aside from several missed calls from his mother.

Newt leaned against the fridge, just to feel something cold, and wound up face to face with a bottle of rum. Hardly touched, too. 

He looked around. Alby must have still been on the couch. He didn’t know anyone else in sight.

And he swiped it. 

He kept it at his hip, all but running down the hall to where he knew Alby’s room was. Once inside, he closed the door, trying to seal the music out with it. He didn’t want it. Any of it.

Before his better judgment could take over, Newt unscrewed the cap and started downing as much as he could handle.

And he stayed in there. For a while.

The music muted in his head, and his previous thoughts were replaced with self-deprecating ones, which, truthfully, was a massive improvement. The worse he felt about himself, the more he drank, and the more he drank, the less bad he felt about everything else. 

He lost track of time, looking around Alby’s room. It was tidy. Sort of quaint, like a normal person could live there. In fact, nothing in the place advertised Alby’s fame. He was the best kind of celebrity. Newt envied him, and he knew he could be like him if he wanted to. But he never really tried.

At a point, Newt started to crave the music again. He wanted to go back out there. But his limbs were so heavy, and his stomach wasn’t agreeing with everything he had going on. Not that he didn’t try to get up anyway. But he swayed instantly, falling back against the bed and moving to catch himself. Unfortunately, he forgot about the bottle, too.

It fell to the ground, and Newt scrambled to pick it back up, but some already spilled onto the floor. And, in Newt’s hurry to kneel, his stomach flipped inside out.

He reached for Alby’s rubbish bin beside his nightstand, emptying his stomach. It was disgusting, and the more he thought about that, the worse it got. 

And once he finally stopped, he took another swig to wash the taste out. Spat it out. Then took another.

He’s not sure when Alby walked in. He was barely conscious for that part. All he knew was that at some point, the bottle, with barely anything left in it, tipped over again.

So, when Alby looked down at him in horror, cursing and closing his door, Newt mumbled, “I’ll clean it.”

“What the fuck, man? What the fuck?” Alby kept repeating. He moved the bottle, grabbing Newt by the arms and lifting him like a ragdoll before placing him on the bed.

Then, he was in and out. He brought a towel for the ground. He took his bin out of the room. He brought Newt water and a slice of bread that tasted like lava and made him want to throw up again. And finally, he sat beside Newt on his bed.

That’s when Newt registered the tears in Alby’s eyes. “Why?” he’d asked. “Are you crying?”

Alby wiped at his face, nodding. “Because you’re scaring the shit out of me.”

Newt couldn’t comprehend that properly, but it did sober him up slightly. “Don’t be scared.”

“I thought you were dead when I walked in,” Alby said. Newt, as drunk as he was, would never forget it. “I saw you there on the ground, and I thought my best friend was dead.”

Then, Newt started tearing up. “I’m not.”

“You will be,” Alby said. He shook his head. “Is that what you want?”

Newt shook his head back.

“It sure as hell looks like it,” Alby said. “Are you even trying to get better?”

Newt looked down at his lap, letting his tears fall. “I’m not.”

There was a second of silence. “If you don’t try, I don’t know how I’m going to keep doing this. Being your friend.”

Newt’s chest heaved with his tears, and Alby grabbed and hugged him, letting Newt cry into his shoulder. He apologized, over and over. He cried out all his tears. Drank some water. Cried some more.

“I’ll try,” he finally said.

“You said that last time,” Alby said, clearly not trusting him. 

It only made Newt more resolute in his vow. “I mean it this time. I’ll try. I don’t want this anymore. I’ll do it right this time. I swear.”

Alby nodded. “You really swear?”

“On our friendship,” Newt said. It was the one thing he cared enough about to bet on.

He stayed at Alby’s that night. Alby insisted he took the bed, but Newt stubbornly stayed on the couch. So, Alby slept on the other couch. He put on a movie, and Newt appreciated the background noise. He woke up from a hundred different nightmares throughout the night, but the sight of Alby calmed him back down enough to get back to sleep every time. His longest stretch was probably from nine to noon. Alby let him sleep in, bringing him water, coffee, and one of his protein bars. 

It was one of the nicer mornings Newt had had in his life after one of the worst nights. Neither of them had work, so they watched trashy reality shows where they had no chance of knowing the actors. They cleaned up the previous night’s mess. And, for the next few weeks, Newt was there more often than he was at his own flat.

He was consistent with therapy. He stopped drinking, cold turkey. And yes, it was hard. He spent some days he didn’t have work just laying in bed. But he did it. He actually began getting better.

“Until now,” Newt adds.

Newt and Thomas sit in heavy silence once Newt finishes telling him the long story. He might have just blown his shot at even being friends after that, but hearing it all again, what he went through before he decided to stop, fills him with that same emptiness he had that night at Alby’s party.

“Newt,” Thomas starts, looking him over. Newt realizes he was miles away that whole time and hasn’t actually looked Thomas in the face in probably half an hour. “I’m so sorry you went through that.”

“It’s alright,” Newt says, managing a weak smile. “I like my life. I like doing what I do. You said it for yourself, there’s no reason to pity someone as well off as I am.”

“Alcoholism doesn’t care if you’re rich or poor,” Thomas says softly.

“It’s such a strong word.  _ Alcoholism.  _ Alcoholic, too,” Newt says. “I always hear them from my therapist and I think… that can’t be  _ me.  _ I’m just me. Newt. But the thing about drinking, I suppose, is that you’re always the last to know if it’s a problem. Sure didn’t feel like one.”

“I’m glad you had Alby around, then. And if it helps, of course you’re you. You just happen to deal with a shitty disease,” Thomas says. “Does your mom know about all of this?”

“Hell no,” Newt says, chuckling and ignoring the feeling he got at the word  _ disease. _ “She’d kill me before my liver ever got the chance.”

“And she still thinks you’re straight?”

“As a pencil,” Newt says. “For someone that dominates so much of my life, she doesn’t know a thing about me.”

“Do you wish she did?” Thomas asks. 

“If you go to TMZ with this shit for a tell-all, I’ll never forgive you,” Newt says, making Thomas smile. He likes the sight. “Do I wish she knew all of this? No. Do I wish she was the kind of person who  _ could  _ know all of this? That’s a different story.”

“Well,” Thomas starts, nodding, “you’re actually pretty great. And not just what you let the public see.”

Newt feels something else in his chest now. A swelling, rather than squeezing or emptiness. They’re all equally disorienting, and Thomas seems to glow in his eyes. Not just from the compliment, but from being the kind of person that would come over and put Newt to bed safely instead of taking advantage. The kind of person who stays and fights for something he wants instead of walking out like anyone else would. 

Suddenly, Newt is terrified. 

“You think so?” he asks, hoping against hope that his tone doesn’t betray him.

“Yeah,” Thomas says. “I do.”

They’re so close, now, shoulder to shoulder, eye to eye. There’s something so natural between them, that, to Newt, is the most unnatural thing in the world. What  _ is  _ this? It doesn’t feel like the attachment he formed to Alby. It feels like something he can’t put into words.

For the second time today, Newt feels an inexplicable pull to Thomas. The urge to kiss him. Not for the usual reasons. When Newt kisses someone, typically it’s for a distraction. To make them or himself stop talking or thinking. But now it seems as if he’s not thinking enough. 

Thomas’ lips are so kissable, his eyes wide and heart surely thumping the way Newt loves to feel every time they’re together. He knows Thomas is in constant awe of him, but he’s starting to think it’s not just the fame that causes it. 

“Holy shit, what time is it?” Thomas says suddenly, scrambling for his phone.

Newt tries not to show his disappointment at the break in the moment. “Why?”

“I have a midterm at twelve,” Thomas says, turning his phone on. Eleven thirty. “Oh, fuck me.”

“Again?” Newt grins.

“I have to go, I’m sorry,” Thomas says, carefully peeling a very cuddly Bark off his lap. 

“Right,” Newt says, partially to himself, affirming the fact that he needs to reign in whatever he has going on. “Have fun.”

“I won’t,” Thomas says, standing and brushing dog hair off of himself. 

Newt stands with him, walking him to the door that isn’t at all hard to locate as Thomas mumbles about being late and having to study on the train. When Newt opens the door for him, suppressing a laugh at Thomas’ nerves, Thomas breaks from it to turn to him.

“See you,” he says.

“See you,” Newt agrees.  _ Soon,  _ he hopes.

And, as Thomas goes to rush, he turns and gives Newt a quick peck on the lips before walking out.

Newt doesn’t even have the chance to respond, and by the time he registers it, Thomas is gone.

Not knowing why he did that, and against his fear, against  _ everything, _ Newt smiles.

***

He’s going to be late now, and he’s gonna fail yet another midterm. How could he not check the time? How did he forget something so—

Thomas stops in his tracks, halfway to the elevator.

Then, backtracks in his mind to a few moments earlier.

“Oh my god,” he whispers to himself. His hand flies up to his mouth, then his forehead. Did he just kiss Newt goodbye? What the hell was  _ that? _


	11. leave me lonely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> newt and thomas open up. just, not to each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy valentine's day! for the occasion, i'm posting two chapters today, so enjoy this and 12!

Newt always hears the same advice being given to young artists of any kind.  _ Don’t make the goal fame. Make the goal be bettering yourself in your field.  _ Well, Newt always excelled in his field, and he knew it. The goal was always fame. What else would the point be? 

“Do you act because you enjoy it, or because you want the fame?” Dr. Paige asks.

“Both?” Newt says. 

“The attention fame brings you—does that need perhaps stem from the lack of a father figure in your life?”

“Jesus Christ,” Newt says. “I like it because it means I’ve proven myself.  _ Made  _ something of myself in this world.”

“But do you think—”

“Can we get off this now? I called to talk about something specific.”

“What’s that?”

Newt pauses, cringing at himself. “A guy.”

He explains bits and pieces of the Thomas situation. Shagging multiple times, which is unusual for Newt. Wanting to see more of him. Their conversation this morning. 

“And you knew him in high school?”

Newt smiles at that. “Yeah. We played seven minutes in heaven. I thought he was going to…” he remembers the moment, being so close to Thomas, his heart pounding in his ears. “I hadn’t had much experience with boys. I noticed how Thomas looked at me. If he had made some sort of move in that moment, I think I would have liked it.”

“And now you believe you’re developing real feelings for him.”

“Whoa,” Newt laughs. “I don’t know about all that, I mean, what does  _ feelings  _ even mean? I like what we do, sure. He’s nice. He cares about me. I care about him, I suppose.”

“That sounds like the making of real feelings,” Dr. Paige says. “When’s the last time you felt that way about someone?”

Newt blinks. “Well, I like being around Alby, but I don’t fuck him. Or want to.”

Dr. Paige exhales in deep disappointment. “So you may be experiencing romantic feelings towards Thomas.”

Newt wasn’t sure what he was expecting from this call. Maybe exactly this. “I’m not saying they are,” Newt starts, “but even if they were, I couldn’t do anything about it.”

“Says who?”

Newt could give an itemized list of people who need him to stay the way he is to ensure his fame stays intact. 

But at the top? It’ll always be himself.

***

Thomas gets home to quite the sight.

“Sorry!” he laughs, running to his room, holding in laughter. He’s pretty sure he’s half out of his mind at this point. There’s no way he didn’t fail that midterm, and Minho and Ben are dry humping on the couch, and he kissed Newt goodbye, and everything is just bizarre. 

There’s rustling from the living room, then a few minutes of talking, then a door, then a yell from Minho. “Thomas, come back out!”

Part of him wants to sleep. Part wants to cry in the shower. But, he doesn’t have the energy to decline, so Thomas stumbles through his little room and back into his little living room. 

“What’s up?” Minho asks, a dopey smile painting his face.

“I failed this morning’s midterm and I’m exhausted,” Thomas says.

Minho’s face falls. “Um.”

“What?”

“Are you…” Minho trails off. “What’s wrong?”

Thomas frowns, then notices. “Oh, shit, am I  _ crying?”  _

“Yeah, man,” Minho says, leaning forward. “What’s up?”

Thomas wipes his face, sniffling. God, he’s a mess. “Would you mind if I talked about something?”

Minho shakes his head. “Of course not. What is it?”

Sitting on the edge of the couch, Thomas reaches his breaking point with this whole thing. He can’t keep this to himself anymore. Fuck the NDA. “A guy.”

Thomas tells him everything, save for a few details too personal on Newt’s part. Only the main dilemma. Newt can’t risk his image. Thomas is—

“—really starting to like him, aren’t you?” Minho asks. “I’ve never seen you so distracted.”

“I don’t know,” Thomas says. “I mean, I want to spend more time with him. I like being with him. He’s an asshole, but I like him.”

“I mean yeah, he’s  _ Newt.  _ We’ve seen everything he’s ever been in. Being with him must be wild,” Minho says.

“It’s not about that,” Thomas says. “The Newt the public thinks they know just isn’t him. It is, but it’s not. There’s so much more to him.”

Minho’s eyebrows raise. “So, what are you going to do about it?”

“About what?”

“About the fact that you’re madly in love with him,” Minho says, smiling. 

Love is a strong word. But Thomas knows his feelings are getting stronger. Much too strong to ignore. “I don’t know.”

“Well, I know something you  _ can’t  _ do,” Minho says. Thomas waits. “You can’t let him go.”

“I don’t know what my options are,” Thomas says. “He doesn’t exactly like to talk about that, and he seems keen on staying quiet.”

“If you can handle it, continue on with what you’re doing and let it happen naturally. But, it sounds to me like he likes you too. Fight for him,” Minho says, putting a hand on Thomas’ shoulder and squeezing.

Fight for him? Thomas doesn’t know how to fight for someone with a situation like Newt’s, but he smiles weakly anyway. “Thanks, Minho.”

He nods. “Just don’t let him hurt you. If he does, I’ll kill him.”

Thomas laughs, nodding back. “You won’t tell Ben, right?”

“I won’t. And if I ever did, I give you permission right now to kill  _ me.”  _

He can trust Minho. More than he can trust himself right now, anyway.

***

“On time today?” Brenda asks as Newt walks through the door. 

“Haha,” Newt says humorlessly, sitting in the chair. 

She gets to work, and Newt bites his lip. Brenda is another one of those good people in Newt’s life that he can’t seem to stop taking advantage of. She allows him way more patience than he deserves.

“Brenda?”

“Mhm?” Brenda hums, a comb between her teeth.

“I, ehm, wanted to apologize.”

She pulls the straightening iron away, ripping the comb from her mouth. “What?”

Newt can’t bring himself to look up, so he meets her eyes in the mirror. “For being a dick. And being hard to work with. And being late. And for showing up hungover sometimes.”

“Whoa, whoa,” Brenda says, setting back to work. There is a show to do, after all. “Am I getting an apology from  _ the  _ Newt?”

“The very one,” Newt says, his smile failing on him. “You’re a good person. You shouldn’t have to put up with me being… myself. So. Sorry.”

“Are you implying that you’re a bad person?” Brenda asks, combing a knot out of the back of Newt’s curly head.

“That is what I just said.”

“Then I have some news for you,” Brenda says, pausing her work. “Bad people don’t spend that much time thinking about being bad. Not any at all, actually.”

Newt frowns. “Doesn’t it make me worse if I know I’m a shit person and don’t do anything about it?”

Brenda laughs. “You apologized to me like thirty seconds ago. You’re good. Trust me. I’ve met a lot of people in my time here.”

That’s the third person in the last two days to tell Newt he’s not bad. Somehow, it hits him harder than the days where everyone is yelling. 

“Brenda?” Newt says again, after a while.

“What?” Brenda asks, plugging in her hairdryer.

Newt swallows hard, adrenaline rushing his brain. “I’m gay.”

She stops, turning towards him, and Newt looks up at her, jaw set and fingernails digging into his palm.

Then, Brenda smiles softly. “I’m guessing not many people know.”

Newt shakes his head. “Nobody can.”

“Then thank you for trusting me,” Brenda says. She hesitates, then circles around the back of him, putting her arms around his shoulders and hugging him. To combat the feeling in Newt’s gut, he smiles at her in the mirror before she continues. “When I was in the closet, I did some shit I regret. Tore me apart. My girl helped, but leaving my town helped more. I needed to be somewhere where I could be  _ me.”  _

He can’t have this argument right now. So, instead, Newt nods. Today, he doesn’t want to disappoint anyone more.

Then, he gets a call.

Newt grabs his phone, putting it on speaker and stifling his anger. “Yes?”

“Teresa is coming to the show tonight, so you’ll need to entertain her,” Vince says, cutting to the chase. “By the way, great job the other day.”

The short-lived happiness from coming out to Brenda evaporates before Newt’s eyes. “Alright.”

“I saw you were drinking, though,” Vince continues, honking sounding in the background. “Did your doctor say that’s alright?”

“It was only one,” Newt says. He can’t bring himself to look up at Brenda. “Got to go.”

He doesn’t give Vince the chance to say goodbye.

“Teresa… you’re supposed to be with her, right?” Brenda asks.

Newt nods again, not trusting himself to speak.

Brenda puts a hand on his shoulder. “Just please take care of yourself. Don’t let it get to be too much.”

Meeting his own eyes in the mirror, Newt reflects on the feeling of being inside that restroom yesterday. Being here now. He’s pathetic.

He deserves to be here. Newt is talented. He’ll always know the assignment. 

And with all of the resentment it’s possible to hold for something one loves so much, Newt will cling to the fame that keeps him alive.

***

Thomas actually gets a solid bit of studying done today. His midterm for tomorrow is the subject he’s most confident in, so, putting Newt aside, he manages to focus.

But then, he tires of studying. His brain wants to do other things. “Hey, Min?”

Minho looks up. “What?”

“What if I, like, went to Newt’s tonight. Just unannounced.”

“With or without flowers?” Minho asks, snickering.

“I’m serious,” Thomas says, cracking a smile. “He has a show tonight. Maybe he’ll want company after.”

“Is that why you haven’t eaten yet?”

“You’re a fucking douchebag.”

“Ironic,” Minho points out. “I say you go. Surprise your boyfriend. But I might invite Ben over, so if it doesn’t work out and you come home and I’m not out here, put headphones in.”

“Gross,” Thomas mumbles. 

And so, after quizzing himself enough times to be sure he’ll ace the midterm, Thomas gets ready, listening to music he plays on this shitty speaker he got from the Kmart by Union. He doesn’t feel like doing the Subway thing tonight, so he’ll take a cab instead. 

On the way over, he detects a giddiness in himself that embarrasses him in front of the nobody that can see it. Can Newt ever see it? Thomas seems to be an open book in front of that boy. But Newt doesn’t seem to hate it. Why should Thomas be so self-conscious when Newt keeps calling  _ him  _ back? He said it himself yesterday. He cares about Thomas.

Newt is such an idiot. How it’s possible that someone so self-important could value themselves so little, Thomas doesn’t know. But Thomas knows one thing for sure.

He’s not happy.

The man guarding the elevator with his life seems to finally recognize Thomas, because he lets him up the second he approaches, mouth open. Being annoying pays off.

Last time he was in this hall, he was fresh from kissing Newt. God, they never addressed that, did they? Will he have to? They haven’t even spoken since then. Maybe Newt found it completely weird and Thomas ruined this whole thing. 

Before he can travel further down his spiral of doubt, Thomas knocks on the door. He can apologize if it’s necessary.

A few moments of nothing. Thomas frowns, wondering if maybe Newt fell asleep or isn’t back yet, then decides to knock again.

He waits five seconds. Ten. Then, as he’s about to walk away, the door opens.

“Wrong bloody—” Newt starts, before finding Thomas’ eyes. His widen. 

Thomas can’t speak. Newt only wears dress pants, which wouldn’t be so unusual, except that his hair is disheveled, lips pink, and fly half undone. 

Stupidly,  _ so  _ fucking stupidly, Thomas’ heart falls through his stomach to his shoes as they stare at each other like that for a long, painstaking moment. 

“Tommy,” Newt says, quiet and desperate, searching Thomas like he doesn’t know exactly what he’s thinking.

“I’m sorry,” Thomas mumbles, turning as fast as his muscles will allow. His heart seems to slow in his chest, depleting him of oxygen or blood flow and leaving him weak.

Then, a hand is circling his arm. “Thomas, ju—”

Thomas turns to face him, ripping his hand away. “What, Newt? What?”

“Newt?”

They both turn to the sound. A yell from Newt’s apartment.

“You better take care of that,” Thomas says, hardly hearing himself through the static noise in his ears.

He’s not stopped a second time as he gets into the elevator, legs shaking. 


	12. into you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thomas goes to a club. rated R.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my buwygfib throwback chapter

Thomas trails his fingers along the side of the glass housing his whiskey. He can always tell if it’s going to be too expensive based off of the glass. This one’s real. Crystal. Even in a club. He hates the Upper West Side.

He lifts it to his lips, letting it hit the front of his tongue and trying to harden his expression to keep from wrinkling his nose. This shit is disgusting, but it works. 

Part of him is ashamed by coming here. But going home is far too embarrassing. Especially if he gets upset again. 

He should have really listened to that voice. Was it another guy? Or Teresa? Does it even matter? 

Thomas takes his phone out, opening up Twitter and illuminating the dark around him, going to an update account that usually has the most reliable information on what Newt’s doing. Not that he stalks him. It just comes in handy. And from the looks of it, he should have taken a look sooner.

Newt and Teresa leaving through the stage door, just as he and Thomas had. Then, the caption.  **Newt and girlfriend Teresa Agnes leave theater together after Newt’s performance of** **_Death of a Salesman._ **

He scrolls back further to the other night. The night Newt came back trashed.

**CONFIRMED: Newt is in a relationship with former co-star Teresa Agnes, sources close to the couple say.**

There’s a ton of photos of them at a party, and in every one, Newt is holding a drink. Thomas zooms into his face. His ever-present smile. 

“Shit,” Thomas breathes out, putting his phone back down. He had to make things official with Teresa. No wonder he was such a wreck. 

Why didn’t he tell Thomas? Maybe he was afraid Thomas wouldn’t stay if he knew. Or maybe that’s wishful thinking and he just didn’t care enough to let him know. It could be anything with him. 

This all, of course, means that Thomas helped Newt cheat. But this is a moral gray area, isn’t it? The whole thing is fake. Newt is fucking gay and won’t take a step back from the charade to fucking take care of himself. 

Thomas shotguns the rest of his drink, trying not to gag on it. He’ll be switching to beer after this.

He looks around the club. It’s not very busy, considering it’s a weeknight, but nothing stops New York. It reminds him of Newt. Him going to that one club every night in LA. Making an absolute mess of himself. How alone he must have felt.

The scene doesn’t do much for Thomas. Right now, the music is just annoying, but the pull towards recklessness is something he can understand. The sheer amount of mistakes you can make at a club is intoxicating in its own right. 

After a beer, Thomas gets the urge to do the same thing Newt does. Find someone and take them home. It’s not the worst idea. And what could Newt say? They’re not together or anything. Thomas is a free man.

He gets up, shaking his head as if the vision of Newt in that hallway will go with it. Then, joins the crowd. 

It doesn’t take very long for a girl to approach. Thomas grins. Something college has taught him is that he grew up nicely. He’s modest, of course. But it feels good to know you’re not totally repulsive. Self-confidence and all of that.

Thomas dances with her, and it gets less tame very quickly, sweat on Thomas’ brow and bodies crammed in on every side. It’s not a bad feeling. Admittedly, it does take his mind off of things.

The girl turns, feeling up Thomas. She’s objectively attractive. Thomas could do a  _ lot  _ worse. He lets her guide him, putting his hands on her waist. 

And when her hand begins to creep under Thomas’ shirt, he gets a whole other image in his head. 

Newt in front of him, eyes dark and lips red. Newt hovering over him in his bed, forehead coming down to meet Thomas’. Newt’s necklace hitting Thomas’ back as his rings press into his sides.

Thomas’ breath catches as the girl puts an arm around his neck, and the heat becomes suffocating.

_ I can do this,  _ Thomas thinks.  _ Look at her! She’s perfect!  _

The sight of Newt in the hallway comes back to him again, and he tries to burn it as fuel. Let it get him riled up enough to let it go.

Except instead of anger, he begins to hurt  _ for  _ Newt. It was Teresa in there waiting for him. And Thomas is going to come here and wallow?

“Let’s have a drink,” the girl says over the music, lit up in yellow and pink. 

The thought of getting away from the crowd lets Thomas accept, and he orders a vodka and coke. Normally, mixing too many types of alcohol doesn’t go well for Thomas. But he’ll just have to learn that lesson yet again.

When they get their respective drinks, Thomas doesn’t listen to whatever she’s talking about. It’s easy to drown it out here, despite her hand trying to crawl up his knee. Instead of engaging, he occasionally nods, wishing she’d go away. 

He does that until he feels a buzzing in his pocket. 

He takes it out, squinting at the screen. Then, blinks hard. 

Without excusing himself and barely having put a dent in his drink, Thomas runs to the closest door he finds, which turns out to be a bathroom, answering the call. 

He forgets to actually say anything, though, so the first thing he hears is, “Tommy? Where are you?”

“Um,” Thomas says, realizing the music is only half-muffled. “Nowhere.”

“Are you at a club?” Newt asks.

“No,” Thomas says, squeezing his eyes shut. Now, he feels like an idiot.

There’s a long stretch of silence where Thomas thinks maybe the call disconnected. 

“Which one?”

“I’m not—”

“Thomas, just fucking tell me which one.”

Thomas swallows hard, hating the taste in his mouth. “Club 55?”

“I’m sending the car.”

And then, the call actually does disconnect. Newt hung up on him. 

Shit. 

Why is he sending the  _ car?  _ What, is he Thomas’ dad? Is he bringing him home? Newt gets no say in what Thomas does. Thomas is a responsible adult. He can stay if he wants. He can bring a girl back to his place. Or another guy! Maybe he’ll find that little bitch Aris and sleep with him too!

Thomas curses his alcohol tolerance. After that phone call, he’s as good as sober. Well, he wouldn’t drive or anything, but his brain is barely fuzzy. 

He thinks better of going back to a drink he’s left unattended, but the girl he had been with has left, so he goes back and orders another beer. Really, he should just leave. He can text Newt and tell him he went home. Or went home with someone. Even if that’s not true. 

But, for some reason, Thomas stays, sipping his beer vindictively. He stares out at the crowd, catching his subconscious comparing everyone to Newt. The guys just look so plain. Too brawny. Too pretty. Borderline creepy. Douchey. Some of them are hot, granted, but Thomas can’t imagine picking a single one of them while Newt is in his life.

He polishes off that beer, still observing, standing against the wall. Then, as he begins to wonder if Newt will text him, he blinks, convinced he’s seeing things.

But, no matter how much Thomas adjusts his eyes, he’s still there.

Newt, dressed in all black, pushing through people. He stares down the bar, and all around him, at the couches, and finally, he catches a very still Thomas’ eyes. 

They stay like that for a second, Thomas’ empty bottle in his hand as he hardens his jaw to the sight. And then, Newt closes the distance. 

Thomas stiffens as Newt reaches him, grabbing his bottle and tossing it towards a couch. Neither of them checks to see if it made it. He can't read him. Newt is looking right at him, and he could be thinking anything. 

Then, he grabs Thomas by the front of the shirt and drags him back into the crowd. 

He heavily considers the possibility that he may be hallucinating as Newt puts his hands on him. His hair is straight, unlike usual. No rings. No necklace. No earring, even. In this lighting, people may not even know who Thomas is dancing with.

In fact, that must be what Newt is counting on as he connects his lips with Thomas’ neck.

Thomas involuntarily groans, letting Newt move him any way he wants. The music is hardly even present in Thomas’ mind anymore as Newt bites Thomas’ skin, his eyes squeezing shut.

When he opens them back up again, Newt looks at him, grip solid. Then, he turns him around.

This brings Thomas in view of the girl he’d previously been drinking with, and she eyes them, then nods as if  _ now  _ she understands why Thomas left. All Thomas can hope is that she can’t make out what man is behind him. 

Never in a million years did Thomas think he’d be able to dance with Newt like this, but now he understands why he was so popular in this scene. He can fucking  _ move.  _

His lips find Thomas’ neck again, and with the walls of people around them, Thomas oddly feels safe. Enclosed, as Newt’s hands snake down Thomas’ midsection excruciatingly slowly while he keeps Thomas moving against him fluidly, Newt his guiding force. When he gets low enough for Thomas to feel his touch in his gut, he lingers, and Thomas’ head clouds up worse than if he’d continued drinking. 

He turns around, catching Newt off guard, and kisses him hard and sloppy. Newt leans into it immediately, and Thomas feeds off of the intensity of it. Newt grips Thomas’ jaw, always needing the control, deepening the kiss and catching Thomas’ lower lip in his teeth. 

Thomas can’t stop the noise he makes in response, feeling Newt up, knowing all too well the soft skin under his thin tee. This is the best kind of warmth. He lets the smell of Newt’s cologne take over his senses, not even caring if Newt can taste the alcohol on Thomas’ tongue. 

He only realizes how deep they’ve traveled into the crowd when his back hits a wall. 

It’s  _ extra  _ dark over here. The lights are all facing away, and there are still people close, but none paying attention. 

Newt kisses Thomas again, putting his thigh between Thomas’ legs and swallowing any noise Thomas makes at the friction. His eyes are shut, but fight not to roll back into his head as Newt changes his positioning, ending up flush against Thomas’ body. His hips press into Thomas’, and Thomas could swear every move of his is calculated to drive him as crazy as possible. 

Testing a theory, Thomas brings his own hand down Newt’s chest. Newt pulls away, hovering close to Thomas’ face as he does. He can feel Newt’s abs through the t-shirt. Newt’s eyes are practically black, lips parted, looking over Thomas. When Thomas reaches the button of Newt’s jeans, Newt’s eyes flutter shut for a brief moment, licking his lips before meeting Thomas’ eyes again. Turns out, he's just as affected as Thomas. 

He leans in close, hot breath on Thomas’ ear. First, he kisses the skin below it. Then, “Come with me.”

Thomas doesn’t need to be asked twice.

Newt takes his hand, leading him back through the club. Close to the entrance, someone frowns at them. “Sorry, are you Newt?”

But Newt doesn’t break his stride. “No.”

They finally break into the outside world, and Newt pulls Thomas into the car that’s been illegally parked in front for who knows how long. 

“Home,” Newt breathes out, before closing the divider. 

They don’t bother with seatbelts, Newt positioning Thomas to straddle him. He grabs him by the ass, pulling him close. Thomas follows his lead, grinding his hips and making Newt’s mouth fall open against his. 

The silence in the car is filled by their hearts and their shared breaths, not even breaking away from each other long enough to say anything. 

And when they stop in front of Newt’s building, Thomas sits up, whacking his head on the roof of the car.

He grimaces, and Newt’s hands rub Thomas’ thighs.

“You alright?” Newt asks, laughing.

Thomas nods. “Are we going in?”

Newt looks afraid to speak. “Teresa is sleeping in my bedroom.”

And that presents a problem, logically. Thomas is not thinking logically. “Then we won’t go into your bedroom.”

Newt looks Thomas over. “You’re not drunk, are you?”

Thomas shakes his head. “Are you?”

Newt shakes his head. 

They enter Newt’s apartment quietly, and Thomas watches him look around. He goes to his bedroom door, pressing an ear against it. 

Then, once he seems satisfied, he turns back on Thomas. 

“Where’s Bark?”

“In the bed,” Newt says, both of them so quiet, Thomas has to strain to hear.

“Alr—”

Newt cuts him off with a rough kiss, and Thomas lets him walk him back towards the couch, discarding his own shirt before Newt can get the chance. Newt follows his lead, pulling his t-shirt off and letting Thomas trail his fingers first down Newt’s biceps, then his chest. 

Newt leans in, whispering. “Get on the couch.”

Thomas listens to everything Newt asks for. His face and chest wind up resting on a pillow, and he tries to control his breathing as Newt pulls his jeans down. Then, he bites his lip as Newt preps him.

He gasps as Newt presses himself against Thomas, leaning down.

“Tommy, baby,” he starts gruffly, making Thomas’s legs shake already, “arch your back for me and try not to make too much noise.”

Thomas buries his face in the pillow, cursing the god that brought him here and knowing that, without a doubt, he will never stop wanting Newt.


	13. sometimes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> newt is a little too open with thomas, thomas makes a vow and finishes his midterms, and newt panics.

Friends isn’t going to work.

Newt can’t admit it out loud, but in his heart and brain, he knows it. He knows it as his fingers explore Thomas’ soft brown hair. As he feels Thomas’ heartbeat against his own chest. The warmth of Thomas’ skin against his as he breathes deep and slow, glistening and still recovering. 

It hurts so bad, Newt can hardly stand it, and it’s not helped when Thomas lazily presses a kiss to Newt’s pec. 

Teresa is just on the other side of that wall. Newt is such an asshole, letting her think he’s interested in her. More than that, even. She really seems to like him. But the thought of spending one more night with her makes Newt shudder.

Thomas lifts his head to look at Newt, all doe-eyed and face flushed. There’s hardly any light, save for whatever comes in through the window, dusk shining down on them with the added city lights. The luminescence gives Thomas a sort of glow, and Newt is so afraid of what will come out of his mouth. Another argument. Asking something of him he can’t do. 

He asks just above a whisper. “Are you okay?”

It’s a devastating question. Newt feels it in his gut, and he takes in a deep breath to try tricking his heart into not speeding up. It doesn’t work. “I’m fine,” Newt whispers, not trusting anything more. 

Thomas doesn’t seem convinced. He leans up, kissing Newt so delicately, he could cry. It’s gentler than what Newt deserves. All of this is better than what Newt deserves. 

“Just remember that if you want to be, you can be,” Thomas whispers against his lips. They both open their eyes at that, noses touching.

Newt is exhausted, after the day he’s had. It may be for that reason that he feels his throat close up. What a cliche that would be, if he began crying after a hookup. 

“I…” he trails off, swallowing tears. “I came out to Brenda today. From the theater.”

The corner of Thomas’ mouth lifts. “Was that alright?”

Newt nods. “I think so,” he says, hoping his glassy eyes won’t show in the night.

As if reading his mind, Thomas doesn’t press further than that. Though, he does have one more thing to say on the subject. “I’m proud of you.”

The only thing Newt can do to keep himself from crying is pulling Thomas into another kiss. When they pull away, Newt surprises himself by tilting Thomas’ head down, pressing another kiss to his forehead. 

He has feelings for Thomas. There’s no way around it anymore. These feelings are real, the way Dr. Paige described it, and he has no idea what to do about it. He’s lost. Utterly lost.

“You shouldn’t be,” he says under his breath. He hopes Thomas didn’t hear. 

***

Thomas, still riding the high from being with Newt, can’t help but wonder what it is he’s doing. Why this whole night has given him such a  _ rush.  _ He couldn’t care less about Teresa in the other room. All he wants is Newt, and from the looks of it, Newt wants him too.

There are so many things he wants to say. He wants to ask Newt to break it off with her. To not hook up with any other guys. For now, maybe this will have to be enough.

He understands Newt’s bitterness. His brain works against him, Thomas thinks. And now, Thomas is angry  _ for  _ him. But the solution is right in front of Newt, and for some reason, he won’t take the out.

“Yes,” Thomas says, kissing a spot on Newt’s collarbone, “I should be.”

It’s not lost on Thomas that every time they sleep together, things get more intimate. Touches linger. Words of affirmation. Shared smiles. Kisses that run deeper than just for mere show. And now, they’re cuddled together on the couch. 

Newt’s fingers rake through his hair, and Thomas could fall asleep right here. He wants to. 

“Tommy?”

Thomas hums softly.

“I’m…” Newt stops himself, and Thomas feels his breathing dip. “I’m sorry about earlier. When you came here.”

Thomas listens to Newt’s heart as it quickens. “It’s alright. I understand.”

A few more moments of silence.

“I’m glad you came,” Newt continues. “I, um, I was going to drink a lot more if you hadn’t, and I—” Newt stops again. Thomas wants to look up, but he wants to let Newt speak first. “I’m just sorry. That’s all.”

These rare moments of vulnerability must be the worst for Newt, but they mean everything to Thomas. It’s when he’s his most genuine. Not that the rest of him isn’t  _ him.  _ But he hides. All the time. 

Since saying that would likely overwhelm him, Thomas simply nods on his skin. “I’m glad I came too, then.”

They stay like that for a while, Thomas closing his eyes but being careful not to fall asleep. Newt’s hands eventually migrate to Thomas’ lower back, and his breathing slows. After who knows how long, Thomas looks up to find Newt’s eyes closed, head lolled slightly to the side. It makes Thomas smile. 

But, as much as he’d like to stay, there’s sort of a situation that prevents it.

Thomas sits up, making Newt’s eyes fly open. 

“I’m going to get going,” Thomas whispers, and Newt’s arms release him. It’s so cold, leaving Newt’s chest. They had draped a throw blanket from the side of the couch over themselves, and Newt pulls it back onto his own lap.

Thomas goes to the bathroom in only his boxers, being as quiet as possible, and when he reemerges, Newt is right where he left him.

“I’ll have the car take you home,” he says, still half-asleep. “You want me to come?”

Thomas hates the way the offer warms his heart. “No, I’m alright. Thank you.”

He’s very aware of Newt watching him while he re-dresses, and tries not to think about him going back in there to Teresa. But, as much as Thomas may not like it, he knows it hurts Newt so much worse in ways he’ll never understand. 

Once he’s dressed, Newt speaks again.

“I’ll call you,” he says.

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” Thomas says, making Newt laugh quietly.

“Well, this time I mean it,” he says, sitting up, the blanket falling to his waist. 

Thomas nods. “I’ll see you soon.”

Newt’s smile is lopsided, and Thomas wants to kiss him goodbye again. This time, it wouldn’t be so weird. But instead, he walks to the door, not looking back. He can’t look too desperate now.

And when Thomas softly closes the door behind himself, he makes himself a foolish and exhilarating promise. 

He’s going to make Newt want more.

***

Newt has no respect for businessmen. You know, the typical suit and tie kind of rich man who makes his money by stepping on others. Those types of men don’t deserve their wealth. Not that anyone should be filthy rich.

Alby got Newt started on a monthly ritual of sorts. They gather clothes they’ve already worn to events, and seventy-five percent of their last paychecks and donate it all. Usually, Newt loses track of time, so he needs the reminder. 

“It’s that time of month again.”

Newt pouts, despite Alby not being able to see it over the phone. “Last I checked, I’ve got a dick.”

“Yeah, and you are one,” Alby says, though Newt hears a smile in his voice. “I have a good place in mind for the clothes. Want me to pick you up?”

Sitting up in bed, Newt feels a giddiness in his chest. “Yeah. Sounds good.”

When they hang up, he looks to his left. Nobody is in the bed with him today. It’s strange; normally, Newt hates company in the mornings. He always did. He hated it yesterday with Teresa of course, but even with men, it’s always been a nuisance. But waking up with Thomas sleeping peacefully beside him acted as something calming, as if his serenity extended to Newt for that brief few moments.

The thought makes his empty stomach fold in on itself. 

It’s the same thought process that has made him go back on his promise so far. That desperate, pathetic swear that he’ll call Thomas. The more distance he puts between himself and that night, the fuzzier it becomes. All day yesterday, it was playing through his head like a movie. And the more he watched, the more afraid he became.

What must Thomas think of him now? 

Newt grabs clothes to split into two groups. One to donate, one to give to Vince to have dry cleaned. That’s a fun part of the job. He doesn’t have to do all that shit. Sometimes, he’ll hear celebrities complain about not getting to do all the mundane things life has to offer. Mundane is overrated. 

Of course, some things might have been fun. School, for one. Dr. Paige has her own feelings about that. 

She’s convinced Newt hasn’t changed or developed since he started in Hollywood. But that was high school. How can he not have changed? Of course he has. She thinks he’s been the same because he didn’t get to be around other kids his age and progress in a “normal environment,” but that sounds like bullshit. 

Newt finally gathers his clothes, puts on a plain yellow shirt with patterned trousers, then tries to fix his hair before running down to Alby’s car. He likes to be his best around him. There’s nobody he wants to prove he’s alright to more than Alby. Any cracks in the armor, and he’ll be disappointed. That’s something Newt couldn’t take. Not again, anyway.

“Hey,” Alby greets him as he gets in the car, tossing his bag in the back. “How are you holding up?”

Newt eyes him. “Why?”

Alby shrugs. “Just a greeting.”

“Right,” Newt says. “How are you, then?”

Alby quickly pulls away from his spot in front of a fire hydrant. “That good, huh?”

“You know the situation. I manage. Doesn’t bother me much anymore,” Newt lies. Luckily for him, he’s an actor. 

“If you want to talk about it, you know I’m here, right?” Alby asks. He glances quickly at Newt, whose expression is being carefully controlled. “Please.”

Newt nods earnestly. “But Dr. Paige has me under control, so don’t worry your beautiful head about it.”

Alby chuckles. “Sometimes you just need a bro.”

“Okay, you can quit beating around the bush. We can have a reality TV night,” Newt says, throwing his hands up in surrender. “All you had to do was ask.”

“Are you capable of being serious?” Alby asks, still amused.

_ Does acute depression count as serious? _ “You’ll have to stick around and find out.”

Alby sighs. “Just promise to reach out if you need me.”

And Newt knows he can. Alby would have no problem with it. But after everything, the idea of Alby knowing he’s gone back on every promise he made is too much for him to bear. He can take care of this on his own.

“I will.”

***

Thomas has officially finished his midterms. He lets out the biggest exhale of his life as he puts his pencil down after checking his answers twice. 

This one was hard, so maybe Newt not calling yesterday was a blessing in disguise. Right?

Well, it would have been nice, since he said he would and everything. But now, since he said so, Thomas can’t be the first one to reach out. That would be strange. 

He’s found out so much about Newt in just this short time since they reunited. There’s so much more to him than Thomas ever thought possible. Somehow, he thinks he’s the only person in the world who can see it. Newt certainly doesn’t.

He’s got all these preconceived notions of himself. They torture him. He thinks his fame is his prison? No—it’s his own head. Thomas can see that war raging in there every time they meet. Laying there with him the other night, his fragility was enthralling to Thomas. A peek into his psyche. But maybe that’s what’s keeping him away.

Thomas packs up his books once he’s dismissed, putting in headphones—he’s bothered by less people on the street like that—and going to his usual update accounts, afraid of what he’ll find.

But, he’s pleasantly surprised to see Newt grinning in a blurry photo, clearly taken without his knowledge. He’s surrounded by clothes, and standing next to Alby, laughing at something. It’s genuine happiness, alright. It warms Thomas’ heart, strangely. Now that he knows what Alby means to him, it’s good to know that they’re together. At least Alby is a good influence.

Thomas blinks at the thought. What is he, Newt’s dad? 

Speaking of Newt’s dad, Thomas never found out what the story is there. Did Newt ever even know him? As long as Thomas has known him, there’s never been a father in the picture.

His obsession with Newt has gotten pathetic. 

Thomas jumps when his phone starts ringing, and for a moment, his heart leaps. Newt is his first thought.

But, it’s not his name that pops up.

“Shit,” Thomas mutters, debating quickly in his head. After a few moments, he answers. “Hello?”

“Hey, Thomas,” Thomas hears Sonya’s sweet, sheepish greeting in his ears. “How are you?”

“Fine,” Thomas says, heart pounding now as he walks from the leftover adrenaline.

“I wanted to apologize again. You don’t have to forgive me. But I also wanted to tell you that nobody’s really talking about you anymore. At all, actually. I deleted everything and said I had the wrong person in mind. Newt’s dating Teresa now, right? You don’t have to answer that.”

For some reason, hearing that nobody cares about him anymore disappoints him slightly. It doesn’t make any sense, because that’s what he wanted, but it’s like being erased from Newt’s life. “Good. And yes, he’s dating Teresa. That’s public knowledge.” 

“Right,” Sonya says.

Does Sonya truly believe that they’re dating? “And make sure they all know that the relationship is real. I see people say otherwise. I can vouch. They’re together.”

Saying it hurts deep in Thomas’ core, but it’s necessary. As long as Newt needs it to be, anyway.

“Of course,” Sonya says. She pauses. “Do you forgive me?”

Thomas thinks as he waits for the light to change so he can cross. He glances down the street at the row of tall buildings, all glistening in the sun. “Yeah. I forgive you. Just try to be a bit more respectful of people’s personal lives on the internet from now on, alright?”

“Totally,” Sonya says, Thomas smiling to himself at the happiness in her tone. As annoyed as she made him, she’s not a bad person. Newt was right about fan and celebrity culture. “I’m so sorry. Thank you.”

“No problem,” Thomas says. He did have a fight with Newt over it, but even still… he wasn’t complaining by the end of it.

When Thomas gets home, Ben is sitting on the couch, watching the TV. It’s startling, seeing a whole other person in place of where Minho usually is, but Ben is a good addition. Everyone could use a bit of his energy. 

“Hi,” Ben says, smiling up at him. He looks a bit too happy, so Thomas decides against asking him about his day. 

“Hey, man,” Thomas says, hanging up his jacket. He listens closely for the sound of running water. “I’m guessing Minho’s in the shower?”

“That’s correct,” Ben says, nodding. 

Thomas collapses onto the couch. “How are midterms going for you?”

Ben shrugs. “I’m saving my energy for finals. How were yours?”

Sighing, Thomas closes his eyes to the TV, settling in his spot. “Eventful.” He opens an eye. “Ben?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you and Minho, like… official?”

Ben gives him a lopsided smile. “I don’t know. It feels stupid to ask.”

“I’ll make him do it, then. He wants it, I promise,” Thomas says. “Plus, nothing would be funnier than watching Minho talk about his feelings.”

Ben laughs, and Thomas closes his eyes with the hope of resting, happy with the vow he’s made.  _ Someone  _ should be in a functional relationship. 

***

Today, Newt’s decided, has been somewhat of an ideal day. 

He appreciates the moments of peace as he sits in the passenger seat of Alby’s car, Gally in the back. Music is playing, but it’s not too loud, so they can all hear each other fine. It’s rare that they all manage to get together, but Gally’s not doing his show today, Alby has the week to himself, and Newt’s show isn’t until later.

But sometimes, in the nicer moments, fear begins to creep in. It’s a bit  _ too _ nice. Calmer than Newt deserves, like the juxtaposition against his chaotic mind is too bizarre to handle. 

“Do you want to come to the show later?” Newt asks them, cutting off whatever else they’d been talking about. “It’s boring, so I’d understand if you don’t want to.”

Alby shrugs. “I haven’t seen a show in a while. Sure.”

Newt looks back at Gally, who’s nodding. “You got any boxes in that theater? In case I wanna use my phone?”

To anyone else, it might be offensive. Newt snickers. “I can arrange that.”

“Perfect,” Gally says.

“I just don’t want to be asked to bring Teresa again,” Newt says without thinking. He catches himself as it comes out, Alby glancing at him. “It’s alright, just annoying.”

“Right,” Gally says. “Speaking of, are you still seeing your mate from school?”

Newt’s throat tightens at the mention, so he laughs. “What does  _ seeing  _ mean?”

“Fucking,” Gally says, matter-of-factly.

Alby cringes. “You guys talk so respectfully.” 

“Okay, Mr. Innocent. Golden boy of Hollywood,” Gally says. “We’ll clean up the language.”

It’s nice having them both. They met through Newt, but they’re both easy to get along with. They became fast friends, between Alby’s calm manner and Gally’s bluntness. One would think that would make them clash, but it works nicely. Especially with Newt there. 

“I  _ see  _ him sometimes,” Newt says. 

“Is that the one I told you to be  _ friends  _ with?” Alby asks.

Newt over exaggerates a groan. “We tried that! Swear it.”

“It’s rare that you’re with someone for more than a night or two,” Gally says.

“‘With’ is a strong word,” Newt says, turning to look at Gally.

“Ooh!” he says, eyes lighting up. “You got defensive! Are you thinking a Spring wedding?”

“Fuck off,” Newt laughs. “I’m in a relationship, remember?”

“Of course,” Gally says, putting his hands up.

“I could talk to Vince about that if you need a break,” Alby says. It’s so sincere, it cuts through the energy in the car like a knife.

“Nah,” Newt says quickly. “As long as I’m shagging Tommy, I’ll need the cover.”

“Tommy!” Gally says. “We have a name!”

Newt curses himself. “Enough about Thomas. How is Toby?”

“Man, Newt, how many times do I have to ask you to get off the topic of our love lives?” Gally asks, scoffing. “This guy, right, Alby?”

“That’s what I thought,” Newt says, smirking to himself as he turns back to staring out the windshield. 

“If he’s nice, I think it’s a good thing,” Alby says. “You need a bit more normalcy in your life.”

He’s been told by several people now that he needs more friends outside of fame. Alby and Gally aren’t exactly normal, but they’re not so indoctrinated into celebrity culture. They’re grounded. Not so stuck up. 

“Do you two think I’m stuck up?” Newt asks. “In a celebrity way.”

There’s a pause.

“Well don’t everybody jump at once,” Newt says. “You think I’m a snob?”

“Definitely not,” Alby says, at the same time as Gally says, “Sometimes.”

“Wow.”

“It’s not like that. You’re not stuck up and pretentious. I think you just get stuck in your head about your image sometimes.  _ You  _ yourself are not like that,” Alby says. 

“Yeah, that,” Gally says.

“What do you mean, my image?” Newt asks, getting that familiar buzz in his veins. “You mean being closeted? Worrying about that?”

“No,” Alby says, eyes widening. “Not that.”

“Then what?”

“There’s a reason you asked,” Gally says. “You’re not a snob for the hiding thing. I just think sometimes you let the fame get in the way of being yourself. Not just gay. You.”

Newt crosses his arms. “This is me.”

“We just want you to be happy,” Alby says. 

Newt scoffs, physically unable to stop himself. Why must he poison every room he walks into? 

There’s a prolonged silence that makes Newt miss his flask.

“You know who’s really a snob?” Gally asks. “Adam Driver. Weird guy. Alby, you worked with him, right?”

“Oh, yeah. Completely agreed,” Alby says.

The conversation becomes static to Newt as he stares blankly out at the city. Gally’s right. He did ask for a reason. Doesn’t mean he wanted the answer he feared. 

He eventually rejoins the conversation, not missing Alby’s relief. Newt doesn’t know when he got as high maintenance as he is, but now, he longs to go back in time and stop himself.

After the show, Newt’s anger still hasn’t subsided. It’s easier to push it aside while he acts. Sometimes it feels like he’s not even there when he’s onstage. Like his character possesses him for a few hours, then releases him back into his head, wondering how he got there. 

Now, he’s back, walking backstage. William H. Macy gives him a nod as he passes that Newt almost forgets to return. It’s not good to spoil relationships in this business. That’ll get you nowhere. 

Alby and Gally are waiting for him by his dressing room, both of them on their phones when Newt gets there. Alby looks up first, smiling.

“You were great,” Alby says, and Newt forces a laugh. 

“Thanks,” he says, heading for his things. “Gally, was it as boring as I told you it’d be?”

“Newt, I am a patron of the arts. I do this for a  _ living,”  _ he says.

Newt quirks an eyebrow.

“Yeah, it was boring,” Gally says. “You were good, though. Stole the show. I was watching this one girl in the audience that I thought was actually going to collapse every time you spoke. She was taking videos, too.”

Newt shrugs, taking his shirt off. Nothing they haven’t seen before. He went to a premiere of his own film once with Alby, and when Newt started undressing, they were both fighting hard not to laugh. “I never saw the issue with that.”

“Careful. Too loud, and the president of Broadway will come choke you out,” Gally says. 

As he gets dressed, Newt tries to focus on his breathing. Gally. Alby. “Do you guys want to go out?”

Alby’s brows knit. “Meaning?”

“Do you call it something different in America?” Newt jokes. “Out. Know anywhere good, Gally?”

“Plenty of places,” Gally says.

“Wait,” Alby says, putting his phone away. “Why don’t we do something else? We can go to my place.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Newt says. “You’ll be able to keep an eye out, won’t you? I’m not a kid anymore.”

Alby swallows as he stares at Newt, almost like he’s wondering if this is a joke. He’s twenty-four, so two years Newt’s senior, but the years show in the way Alby harbors a protectiveness over him. He came into fame a little later than Newt. He was eighteen already when he got his breakout role. His parents raised him right. Well-adjusted, all that.

“I’m for it,” Gally adds.

“I need to be home before midnight,” Alby says. 

Newt grins. “I can work with that.”

“One drink,” Alby says, putting up his finger. “And stick with me. No more black eyes.”

“You have my word,” Newt says, knowing damn well that one drink isn’t a promise he can keep. 

Gally is furiously typing away on his phone. “We don’t want photos of us taken, right? My Getty Images guy is obsessed with me.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’ll happen anyway,” Newt says, the anger draining from him more and more by the moment. This is what he needed.

A night out with his two best friends. What can go wrong?

Almost instantly, Newt falls back into his old ways. The romanticism of the music, the lights, the dark. The smell of smoke is always there, whether it be from cigarettes, vape, or weed. He can even smell spilled alcohol. The aromas get overpowering sometimes, but it’s hard to beat out the other senses. 

“This place is gross,” Alby yells.

Newt puts an arm around his shoulder. “That’s the beauty of it, Albert.”

They all go to the bar, making heads turn. The other night when Newt went to find Thomas at the club, he found himself drawn back to it. He left, of course, but that’s because he had another focus. In hindsight, it was reckless. He could have been recognized by anyone. But, in the moment, he didn’t care. 

Newt gets a rum and coke and taps his rings against the glass once it’s in his hands. If he plays his cards right, he can chug this and lose Alby to order a second. 

“It’s impossible to talk in here,” Alby points out.

“You’re right,” Gally says. “That’s why we dance instead.” 

And dance, they do. Each of them find their own respective girls in a matter of seconds, Newt dealing with the usual awe and air of desperation. He takes it with grace and charm, letting her guide him to somewhere outside of Alby’s field of vision. 

The plan works nicely. After his first drink, he gets a second with the girl trailing behind him, quickly drinking a bit to make sure it’s at level with what Alby saw. Then, he finds his way back with her, this time with every intention of seeing Alby. He wants him to see that he’s okay. That he can trust him and not need to watch for him.

For the next hour, Alby, Newt, and Gally all cross paths only occasionally, Gally passing Newt on the way to the bar, Alby stepping away to sit down. Newt comes with him one of those times, growing tired of the girl he’s with. The stares are hilarious. 

“And this is still your first?” Alby asks.

“First and only, as promised,” Newt says. Except the lack of intoxication is starting to get on his nerves. 

On his third drink, Newt is approached again. This time, not by a girl.

“You’re Newt, right?” the guy asks.

“Nope,” Newt says, smiling.

He laughs, though Newt was half hoping he’d believe him. “After that drink, can I buy you another?”

The guy is quite good looking. Hair tousled, bright eyes, pink cheeks, built nicely. He’s also got a mesh tank top on, exposing a sculpted chest.

Newt takes a sip of his drink. This is the type of guy Newt typically goes for as an easy target of sorts. Now this guy is right there for the taking. It would be so easy to slip him away. Go back to his place so that Newt’s not alone for the night. 

“I should be capping it off at this one,” Newt says, lifting his glass. “Thank you, though.”

The guy nods. “Would you wanna dance?”

Newt’s heart pumps loud enough to hear over the music. Why didn’t he say yes to the drink? “What the hell,” he says as a form of agreement. There’s no reason not to, right?

But once they’re on the floor, this guy behind Newt, the feeling doesn’t go away. That nagging. He’s suddenly aware of every single person in the room, his own body feeling far from his head. Everything is too loud, bursting in his ears, yet a quiet roar all at once. The hands on him make him claustrophobic, and now, the image of having Thomas in front of him comes back to mind.

It felt so right, standing with him. So different from every other club experience. He didn’t care where he was—he could have been standing in his apartment. All he knew was that it felt good to make Thomas feel better. To show him in his own fucked up way that he wanted to be there.

When this guy’s hands start to get a bit too adventurous, Newt steps away, bumping into someone else. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, unsure of who he’s even speaking to. “Sorry,” he repeats as he walks away as fast as shaking legs will carry him. He keeps saying it as he cuts through the crowd, looking around desperately. It’s like this place grew three sizes in the last five minutes. Where the hell is everyone? 

An arm grips his shoulder, and Newt whips around, ready to punch whoever it is before he stills. 

“Alby,” he says, and he could cry. Or hug him. Or both.

“You alright?” Alby yells over the music.

Newt wants to say yes. Instead, even with Alby watching, he downs the rest of his drink. Then, looks around. “Is it midnight yet?”

He nods a few times. “It can be if you want it to be.”

All Newt can do is nod back.

They find Gally being grinded against by some guy and Alby drags him away, the giraffe of a human swaying slightly with the force. Newt can’t get out fast enough, flanked by his two best friends. When they finally escape, the cold air burns his lungs.

“Sorry,” he repeats again. 

“Nuhuh,” Alby says as they wait for Newt’s car on the sidewalk, Gally still blinking like he doesn’t recognize the outside. “I’m glad you found me.”

He doesn’t know if Alby’s aware that he lied about the drinks, but the guilt of it weighs him down, adding to his anxiety. “Me too.”

They all climb into Newt’s car, situating themselves in the backseat. Newt feels as if he’s walking on a boat. He didn’t even get drunk. He hardly feels much of  _ anything.  _

Why didn’t he dance with that guy? Take him home?

And why can’t he stop thinking about Thomas?


	14. love language

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> newt and thomas have a semi-double date with ben and minho

Alby stays at Newt’s. He insists to the point of Newt tearing up, curling his hands into fists and screaming for Alby to “get out of his fucking car.” Nevertheless, they wind up in Newt’s living room.

“I’m not giving you my bed,” Newt grumbles as Alby pours them water. 

“I didn’t want it anyway,” Alby says, handing him his glass.

Newt wonders if Alby knows he didn’t mean that. “You really don’t have to be here. I stopped drinking. I’m a parent now, remember? I have a whole life to take care of. I can take care of myself.”

Bark is circling Newt’s feet, jumping up on him, and he leans down to scratch her head, but all the blood rushes to his, making his vision spotty. 

“You ever stop to think that I actually want to be around you?” Alby asks, walking over to the couch.

Newt carefully stands up straight. Alby wants to be around him, Thomas wants to be around him, all of these people want to be around him. But do they know who _he_ is? Alby knows him better than anyone, sure, but what does that really mean? Newt tries his damndest to hide the worst of himself from people—including Alby. Sometimes, it feels like that’s _all_ anyone sees. Truth is, Newt has no idea what to make of himself anymore.

All he knows is that playing characters is much easier than figuring it out.

He’s sober, regretfully, and when he sits down after giving Bark her food and water, he feels that horrible heaviness he always gets after drinking. Like his brain has taken off from any good thoughts for the night, leaving him with everything else.

“You’re a good person,” Newt says eventually, just above a whisper. He doesn’t look at Alby, opting instead for his window. The darkness gives him freedom, as if the shadows cover his thoughts for him.

Alby lets that hang in the air between them for a while before saying, “You are too.”

No matter how many times Newt hears it, it’ll always feel like an empty promise.

“What do you think?” Newt asks, finally looking at him. “About Teresa. Thomas. Does all of that make me a bad person?”

Alby shakes his head. “You’re not a bad person for hiding. It’s not about that.”

“What do you mean?”

He adjusts himself in his seat, letting Bark come up to him. Yet another person she likes more than Newt. “Being good. In our line of work, it’s easy to get caught up in 'the life.’ But the way to keep yourself from becoming someone you don’t want to be is following your heart.”

Newt’s lips twitch into a smile. “Pretty deep for a straight guy.”

Alby grins. “I just listen to my therapist. And people around me. When I first broke into acting, I asked everyone I could find about what kept them grounded. All of them had similar answers. Find things that keep you true to yourself. People. And don’t sacrifice anything that makes you truly happy.”

Newt blows air through his lips, widening his eyes. “Could you write that all down for me?”

“It’s not that complicated, I promise,” Alby says, in that calming way of his. “If you need to be with Teresa for now, fine. But if Thomas is fine with that whole arrangement, I say be with him. If he’s good for you, that is.”

His automatic reaction is to get defensive. _Be with him._ It sounds so serious. Like he’s getting ready to be a bloody bride. 

Instead of telling Alby it’s not like that, he nods. “Now, go to bed so I can get some sleep, will you? And bring me out a blanket from my closet.”

Alby gets up, carrying Bark. “I don’t need the bed.”

“Can’t hear you,” Newt says, putting his legs up on the couch and closing his eyes. “Asleep.”

“You’re a dick,” Alby laughs, making Newt smile.

Giving Alby the bed, after everything he’s done for him, is the absolute least he can do.

In the morning, Alby stays a while longer, ordering them breakfast. He asks Newt about a dozen times if he’s hungover, and Newt has to assure him that he’s fine, which he is. It takes a lot to give Newt a hangover. 

They watch reality TV like old times, and Newt can’t help but feel that same level of calm he always does when he has his best friend around. Gally checks in at some point to see if he’s alright, to which Newt sends back his middle finger, then thanks him and tells him that he is, which was totally his own idea and not Alby’s.

All in all, it’s a good morning. But when Alby leaves, the dread comes back. Being alone is starting to get unbearable. 

So, he does the first thing he thinks of.

***

If he won’t call, Thomas will simply meddle in other people’s love lives.

“Hey, Min?” Thomas asks as he emerges from his room.

Minho’s door is open, and he’s sitting on his bed, presumably texting. “Yeah?”

Thomas takes that as an invitation to come into his room, even though it probably wasn’t. He hovers in the doorway, crossing his arms, then uncrossing because it makes him look like an awkward father about to have “the talk” with his son. “Are you and Ben official?”

Minho blinks at him. “Um. I don’t know.”

“Oh, come on. You gotta know. You’re with him all the time,” Thomas says. 

What looks like the beginnings of a smile tugs at Minho’s lips, but he seems set on suppressing it. “I haven’t really asked. It doesn’t matter, anyway.”

“Of course it matters. You want Ben with some other guy?”

Something flashes over Minho’s face for a second before he reigns it in. “I guess not.”

“Then put a metaphorical ring on it,” Thomas says, grinning. “You guys are good together.”

Finally, he cracks a grin. “I think we are. But I’m not doing this alone.”

“What does that mean?”

“If you’re around tonight, can you just… I dunno, bring it up? Ask again? And then I can ask. But you’ll have to leave the room for that part,” Minho says.

“Are you five?” 

“Please!” Minho says, pouting. “Come on, how often do I ask you for anything?”

“Like, all the time.”

“Just do this! If I bring it up he’ll think I’m… I don’t know.”

Thomas rolls his eyes, chuckling. As ridiculous as this plan is, it’s likely to be even more hilarious. He’s totally gonna eavesdrop. “Fine. Tonight.”

Minho nods in confirmation, then his eyes widen slightly. “Shit, I’m going to have a boyfriend tonight.”

“You have a boyfriend—”

At that moment, Thomas’ phone rings, and he fumbles for it fast enough for Minho to raise his eyebrows at him.

When he sees the contact, he runs out of the room. 

“Hello?” he asks breathlessly.

“Hiya,” Newt says, though it’s faint with Thomas’ heart pounding in his ears. “How are the midterms coming along?”

Thomas can feel himself smiling like an idiot and he wishes it would stop. “Finished them, actually.”

“I thought they’d never end,” Newt says. “Think you failed?”

“Only time will tell,” Thomas says, closing his door behind him. “How were Alby and Gally yesterday?”

It’s out, and then he can’t take the words back. His face goes hot, and he squeezes his eyes shut, praying that he cut out.

“It’s always good to know my fans are updated,” Newt says in the most insufferably amused tone. He’s probably smirking right now. Thomas can’t even kiss him to shut him up. “They were good. Alby stayed at my place to be my nanny, but other than that, I had a good time.”

“That’s good to hear,” Thomas says. He saw they went to a club, and he couldn’t help but wonder… well, if Newt found his usual company. But there’s no way he took anyone home when Alby was there.

“Mm,” Newt agrees. There’s a pause. “What are you doing later on?”

Thomas must look like a schoolgirl right now. He should not be this happy over a phone call. He’s worse than his sister. “Nothing,” he says, attempting casualty. Then, his eyes widen. “Oh, shit! Something! I promised Minho I’d stay here to help him ask this guy out. I’d like to say it’s not as weird as it sounds, but it is.”

“Ah,” Newt says, Thomas’ brain working overtime to try to detect disappointment. “Sounds fun.”

Thomas bites at his lip, leg shaking. “Um. Would you want to… come over?”

Another pause. Thomas cringes at himself, banging a hand against his forehead silently.

“I see no reason why I couldn’t,” Newt eventually says. “Mind texting me the address again?”

Thomas finally exhales, nodding like an idiot. “Yeah. Sure. Of course.”

“Right,” Newt says. “See you later then, Tommy.”

“See you,” Thomas says, trying to hide his elation.

When they hang up, he practically skips out of his room and up to Minho’s doorway.

“Who was that?” Minho asks with a devilish amusement. “You ran like a bat outta hell.”

“Do you mind if Newt comes over later?” Thomas asks, not really caring to know the answer.

Minho’s face drops. “You invited one of the hottest celebrities out there to my apartment when I’m supposed to ask Ben out?”

Thomas considers this. “Yes, I did.”

“Man, fuck you. Ben’s not even gonna care about me!” Minho says, throwing his arms up in exasperation.

“Yes, he will!” Thomas says. “I promise. It’ll make you look cool, knowing a celebrity. We can just stay long enough to get the famous thing out of the way, then I’ll bring it up and we’ll be out of your hair. Please?”

Minho huffs, shaking his head. “That better be some bomb dick he’s giving you.”

Ignoring that, Thomas smiles. “You’re the best.”

“Whatever,” Minho says. He sighs, looking around. “Next order of business.”

“What?”

“In the next few hours, we gotta get this place nice enough to host a celebrity,” Minho says. He gets up, grabbing his coat. “Target?”

Thomas takes a look at their dingey living room and empty fridge, trying to imagine Newt on their couch. Then, turns back to Minho. “Target.”

***

Newt spends ten minutes in his car after arriving at the apartment. Just sitting there. He checks his phone a zillion times, but even when there’s a notification, he ignores it, so he’s not sure why he’s checking. 

Is this weird? It’s not weird to go to a friend’s place. He goes to Alby and Gally’s places. And Thomas’ friends will be there. Granted, only two of them. If they’re fans, he’ll have to be… _on._ Newt. It’s odd—he hadn’t realized how easy it’s become to spend time with Thomas without that. 

Newt has no idea how Thomas has explained away their friendship. If Minho really is his best friend, Thomas has likely told him about their little situation. Oddly, Newt doesn’t mind. Maybe he can just ask him to sign an NDA. Unless that’d make for a bad first impression. 

The trust he has in Thomas, while ill-advised, doesn’t feel misplaced. He genuinely seems to want the best for Newt. Like Alby. Newt can’t see Thomas doing anything to hurt him.

Maybe that’s what keeps Newt outside for so long. Because as far as he can tell, it’s all true. But they both know that that trust doesn’t go both ways.

When Newt gets out of the car finally, it’s with the urgency for air, and he spends a moment taking in the street, hood pulled over his head. The buildings here are a bit more quaint. Browns and reds, and a lot of storefronts. Looking to his right, it opens up a bit more down there, people walking every which way, a playground across the street, and taller buildings off of the other street down there. He’s not exactly familiar with the city street names yet. Just the numbered ones.

A group of younger girls is closing in, so Newt rushes to the door, pressing Thomas’ apartment number on the little keypad and keeping his head down. It’s enough to explain to Thomas’ friends why he’s here, let alone strangers. 

He’s buzzed up almost immediately, and he opens the door before frowning. He looks to his left and his right. No elevator. Huh.

He trudges up the stairs, noting a water stain on the wall. Everything is sort of beige. And these apartments probably still go for over two thousand a month. This city, as nice as it is, can be a total rip-off. If Thomas is a student, he has no idea how he’s affording this.

Three flights later, Newt thanks himself for working out so often, then finds Thomas’ apartment door down the hall to the left. He takes a breath. It’s hard to play a character when you’re not sure what character you even have to be. He’ll just have to wing it. Sometimes, conversations are like improv. It makes him regret telling Alby improv was for people going through midlife crises.

He knocks at the door, putting his hands in his coat pockets. Then, he takes them out. Then, he puts them back in.

The door flings open, and Thomas is looking at him, that usual twinkle in his eye. It relaxes Newt slightly.

“Funny, usually I’m the one on the other side,” Thomas says.

“God, how long did it take you to come up with that one?” A voice comes from behind him.

Thomas looks behind himself, opening the door slightly and revealing who Newt assumes is Minho. He’s slightly taller than Thomas, with well-kept hair, muscles he’s showing off in a sleeveless shirt despite the cold, and a smirk. He gives Newt a nod.

“I’m Minho, Thomas’ hotter friend. Come in,” he says, walking back into the room.

Newt finds himself chuckling as he walks in. He didn’t realize how strange it would be not being on his own turf. “I’m Newt,” he says to Minho, before shooting Thomas a smile. “Nice place.”

“I know it’s not,” Thomas says, though Minho overlaps him.

“I know who you are. Solid work, by the way. You worked with Sydney Sweeney, right? Is she even hotter in person?” Minho asks, sitting on the couch.

Thomas gives him a death glare. “Those are the exact kinds of questions I _just_ told you not to ask.”

“It’s alright,” Newt laughs. “Sydney was a lovely girl, whom I have nothing but respect for. Great kisser, too.”

“That’s what I thought,” Minho says, eyes lighting up. He looks at Thomas. “See? I got my question answered, Newt’s not uncomfortable, everything is fine. Newt, when I tell you I’ve never seen this guy so worked up.”

“Do you want to leave?” Thomas asks Newt, face steadily reddening.

“I quite like your friend, actually,” Newt says. “Thomas tells me you’re asking someone out tonight, Minho?”

Thomas ushers Newt over to the couch as Minho answers, and Newt takes a moment to look around. There are three other doors, one to his left, one in front of him, another to his right. The couch is up against the left wall, with a TV sort of centered in front of it with a coffee table in between. There’s a kitchen area against the right wall, with an oven, a microwave, and a fridge pressed against the back wall. It’s all functional, like a shrunken version of Newt’s.

“I’m supposed to, yeah. Thomas’ idea. With your gorgeous ass here, I’ll just have to hope he’ll still be into me,” Minho says as Newt sits down on the opposite side of the couch.

“I could always wear a paper bag,” Newt jokes as Thomas sits on the coffee table. He seems content, though flustered. Newt knows an overthinker when he sees one. Though, he’s guilty of it himself.

“If it comes to that,” Minho says, shrugging. He’s cool. He doesn’t really seem to be all that struck by Newt’s presence. Not overly hiding that he knows him and his status, but not overly excited. 

“So, uh, Newt,” Thomas says, “you have off tonight?”

Newt nods. “Gotta let the understudy get his paycheck sometimes.”

“Imagine how disappointed the people must be when they go to that show and you’re not even performing. That’d blow,” Minho says, taking his phone out. Definitely not fazed. 

“God knows why anyone sees it in the first place. A lot of these shows need the big names. Otherwise, nobody would come,” Newt says, trying to settle into his spot. 

“I liked it,” Thomas says. “Oh, and Minho knows not to tell anyone you’re here. We’ll tell Ben, too. You don’t have to worry. They’re cool.”

“Jesus, Tommy, you act like we’re doing a drug deal,” Newt says, though he really does appreciate the effort. 

“Tommy?” Minho asks. “That’s cute. I’m going to start using that.”

“I’ll kill you,” Thomas says pointedly. 

Minho grins. “Aren’t you going to offer your guest one of the snacks we spent a day's work worth of pay on?”

“Oh, shit, yeah, do you want something, Newt? Please say yes,” Thomas says. 

“Sure,” Newt says. A part of him—maybe larger than just a part—wants to ask what alcohol he has on hand, but if Thomas were to make it a big deal, it would make things a lot more awkward than they need to be. 

“What do you do to stay in shape?” Minho asks once Thomas is off to the fridge. 

“Ehm,” Newt starts, “the gym.”

Minho laughs. “No, like, do you have a regimen? A diet? Where do you work out?”

“Well, I’ve got my set routine, sure. No diet. I work out in my building; they give me either an hour before they open it to everyone else, or some time at night to lock it off,” Newt says, watching Thomas approach them with a large tray. 

“They give you the gym to yourself? That’s dope,” Minho says.

“Jeez, Minho, why’d you get all of this cheese? You don’t even like it,” Thomas says, putting it down on the coffee table. He looks around. “We didn’t think through the seating.”

“I’ll bring in the chair from my room,” Minho says, getting up.

“Yeah, I don’t trust that thing, so you’re gonna be using it,” Thomas calls after him. He then looks at Newt, exhaling. “Sorry the place is… the way it is.”

“You must think I’m the worst person,” Newt says, staring up at him. “The place is fine. How do you afford Manhattan rent as a student, anyway?”

Thomas quickly glances at Minho’s room before whispering, “It’s mostly his parents. They technically rent the apartment. But I do weird things for money.”

Newt raises an eyebrow. “Do you?”

His cheeks turn pink. “Oh, not like that! I do things at the college. Whatever they need. Sometimes I volunteer to be a research subject. Some of those pay well.”

“Like the one where they made you masturbate there like every day for a week?” Minho asks, coming back in with a chair.

Thomas shuts his eyes again, looking ready to swing, while Minho plops himself down into his chair.

“Yes, like that one, thank you Minho,” Thomas mumbles.

Newt knew he liked Thomas, of course, but he never stopped to think about him outside of their relationship. For example, being here right now in his apartment with his best friend. It’s a whole other side of Thomas Newt hasn’t seen. It’s nice; knowing more. 

“Did you really?” Newt asks.

“It was a _lot_ of money.”

***

Thomas can’t get over the juxtaposition of having Newt in his living room. It’s like… well, actually, having Newt in your living room. It’s just weird. Good, though. No thanks to Minho.

But, after the humiliation passes, he notes Newt getting a bit freer with his words, not sitting so rigid. He and Minho actually get on well. It warms Thomas’ heart to see, weirdly. 

Finally, Ben buzzes up, and they all look at each other. Newt stays neutral, of course, with his couldn’t-care-less-about-anything exterior, but Thomas can tell he’s not looking forward to more company.

“We won’t be out here much longer once Ben’s here,” Thomas says.

Newt looks at him like he didn’t comprehend what he said. Then, he nods. “Yeah, alright.”

When the door opens, Ben greets Minho with a kiss, then waltzes in. First, he looks around. “Did you guys re-decorate?”

“No,” Thomas and Minho say at the same time.

Then, abandoning that, Ben spots the food tray on the table and smiles before his eyes finally find Newt. Thomas holds his breath.

“Who’s this?” Ben asks Thomas. “I’m Ben.”

Thomas blinks. Minho’s mouth goes agape. 

But Newt grins. “I’m a friend of Thomas’.”

“Ohh,” Ben says, nodding. “Like a friend, or a _friend?”_

Newt shrugs, smug now, as far as Thomas can tell. “Like a friend. And you’re a _friend_ of Minho’s?”

Ben shrugs back goofily. “Yeah.”

“You seriously don’t—”

“Ben, have some food,” Thomas says, cutting Minho off. When Ben bends down, Thomas widens his eyes at him, as if to say _don’t be an idiot and ruin this._

Newt, meanwhile, looks quite content. “So, Ben, what’re you in school for?”

“Physical therapy. I think it pays well if you work with athletes,” Ben says, tossing a cube of cheese into his mouth. Now Thomas knows why Minho wanted it. “What about you?”

“Not really in school at the moment.”

“Respect,” Ben says pointedly.

And from there, it’s… relatively easy. Minho likes to talk, Ben jumps in, and Thomas spends the vast majority of his time looking at Newt. He seems fine with mostly listening, and sometimes he’ll go to say something, then stop. The first time he speaks prolonged is during a sports discussion. 

“I sat courtside at one of their games, once,” he says, picking at the snack tray.

“No, really?” Ben asks. 

Newt nods. “Lakers, right? It was fun. Met some of them. Don’t remember any of their names now, but it was a good night. Quite loud.”

“I’d do anything to go,” Ben says. 

“We should go to a game,” Minho says, nudging Ben’s arm. 

“I’d like that,” Ben says, giving Minho a smile so private, Thomas feels wrong for looking. 

“As friends?” Newt asks, looking between them. “Or, you know. _Friends.”_

Minho fidgets, his palms rubbing against each other as he struggles to meet Ben’s eyes. “That’s a good question. Uh. About that.”

Thomas fights against a laugh, but Ben seems completely endeared. 

“We’ll be right back,” Thomas says, standing and motioning for Newt to follow. They rush out of the room, closing Thomas’ door behind them, Thomas being grateful to himself that he tidied his room up before. Then, without further discussion, they both press their ears against the door.

“Could they be any weirder?” Minho mumbles, making Ben laugh. “Anyway, I was gonna ask… I like being friends with you, obviously, but I’ve been liking what we’ve been doing lately, too. More, I guess. God, this sounds lame, sorry. I want to kick my own ass.”

“No,” Ben says. There’s a pause. “You were saying?”

“I don’t want to keep introducing you as my friend.”

“More than that?”

“More than that. Officially.”

“As in boyfriends.”

A pause. “If that’s cool with you?”

Then, silence, which Thomas can only assume means one thing. He lifts his ear away, Newt following suit. 

“The bastard did it,” Thomas says, shaking his head.

“Bloody hell, I thought they’d never cut to the chase,” Newt says, the corner of his mouth tugging upwards.

“Frustrating, right?” Thomas asks.

“Completely.”

They look at each other another moment, and Thomas realizes just how weird things truly are right now. The night at the club was… it was certainly something. Newt looked so open. Thomas won’t mention it, but not knowing how he’s feeling is maddening. Can he even kiss him? Or is that too intimate a gesture right now? 

He’s about to speak when Newt answers his question, pushing Thomas against the door and kissing him fervently. Thomas leans into it, allowing Newt to tilt his head back and deepen it, pulling at Thomas’ lip with his teeth and making his legs go numb. 

Newt kisses the corner of his mouth while Thomas catches his breath, his hands exploring his midsection. His lips find their way down Thomas’ jaw, then down Thomas’ neck, and it takes every ounce of willpower to not mess up his hair.

There’s still no talking from the living room, so when Newt stops, Thomas presses his hand against his chest. “Hold on,” he whispers.

Thomas cracks his door open, checking the spot where Ben and Minho previously resided to find emptiness in their places. He opens it further, looking at Minho’s room. Door closed.

So, he grabs the remote from the couch and turns the TV on to some sort of documentary about a flood. 

“What’re you doing?” Newt asks, only his head coming out of Thomas’ room. 

Thomas walks back in, closing and locking the door behind him while Newt watches with an expression that turns the pit of Thomas’ stomach.

“Just giving Minho and Ben their privacy,” he says coyly, passing Newt to sit on his bed.

“Right,” Newt says, staying standing. Thomas hasn’t been able to properly take him in today. He’s wearing a tan and brown patterned sweater, with his signature necklace and rings, and dark brown corduroy pants. Thomas never thought he’d be so attracted to the way someone dresses, but here he is. “I imagine these walls are quite thin.”

“Not as thin as you’d think,” Thomas says, sitting back ever so slightly. If his legs spread just the tiniest bit as well, it’s entirely unconscious. 

“Uh-huh,” Newt says, looking Thomas up and down, a glint in his eyes. He then diverts to glancing around the room. “Cozy.”

“If you say so.”

“Nice floor plan.”

“Right.”

“Decent sized bed.”

“For fuck’s sake, Newt, will you just get over here already?”

Newt snickers, that familiar lustful darkness flashing over his features before he finally approaches Thomas, one hand in his pocket, the other coming up to rake through his hair. It trails down the side of Thomas’ face, sending tingles up his spine until Newt’s thumb brushes across Thomas’ bottom lip.

Unprompted, Thomas takes his thumb into his mouth, not breaking eye contact with Newt, whose jaw hardens as he watches him wrap his lips around it, taking the whole thing in.

And just like that, Newt’s finger is out of his mouth and his lips replace it, his shoulders covering Thomas’ body as he presses him into the mattress and climbs on top of him. It’s rough in the best way, all hands and teeth and shared air. The first time they break away, it’s for Newt to pull his shirt off. 

Then, he looks down at Thomas, straddling his hips, curls falling onto his forehead. “Is this what you had in mind?”

Thomas nods, undoing Newt’s pants’ button eagerly. He pauses. “Unless you didn’t…”

Newt covers Thomas’ hands with his own, keeping them in place by his zipper. “Didn’t what, Tommy?” 

Against his will, Thomas’ hips buck. “Fuck me,” he mumbles to himself, trying to get in enough air.

Newt leans down again, pressing a gentle kiss to Thomas’ bottom lip before whispering against it. “Ask me again nicely.”

Newt’s gold chain is warm in Thomas’ clenched fist as he fucks him and as they come down from their euphoria together, foreheads touching. Every few seconds, between breaths, Newt keeps leaving these sloppy kisses on Thomas’ face and lips, and every time, Thomas gets this feeling. One he needs to ignore.

It manifests in the way he touches Newt, looking up at him with all the awe he can possibly fit into a look. In the way he reacts to every movement. In the way he notices all of the small details nobody else gets to see of Newt and obsesses over them. 

***

It’s striking how present Newt is; which, yes, sounds like a terrible thing to say. But usually, there’s this sort of disconnect between his thoughts and his present body going through with its actions. Girl or guy, when he’s _with_ someone, his brain takes a backseat. 

Not with Thomas.

Never with Thomas.

It’s like he can’t get enough, kissing him like he thinks he’ll disappear, high off of Thomas begging for him. He could listen to that sound forever. The neediness Newt feels being voiced by Thomas’ sweet whimpers. 

“You’re so good, love,” he breathes. “So good.”

Thomas nods, lips parted as his chest moves in time with Newt’s. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he says, then something flashes in his eyes. Something like regret.

Newt smiles. “You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

He relaxes beneath Newt. “I do a lot of things with it,” he says confidently. 

“You’re bold for being such a sub,” Newt says, kissing him again. He wants to assure him he didn’t do anything wrong. Didn’t go too far. “I love your mouth.”

Thomas inhales sharply against Newt’s lips, and Newt plays back what he said in his own head. His eyes open only to find Thomas already looking at him. And now, Thomas’ hand is on Newt’s chest. He’s bound to feel his heart.

“And what it does,” Newt adds, trying to smile. “How you use it.”

“I love yours too, then,” Thomas whispers.

Newt’s chest pangs, and he kisses Thomas one more time before rolling onto his back beside him, now trying to catch his breath for an entirely different reason. 

***

Thomas, with only his pants on, opens the door to his room as quietly as he can. He gets one step into the living room when he actually looks up.

“Oh.”

Ben smiles sheepishly. “Hi,” he says. He’s also only wearing pants. Minho’s sweatpants, to be more specific. “Uh. Did you wanna go first?”

“If that’s alright?”

“Go for it.”

Thomas rushes to the bathroom, closing the door behind him and gazing immediately into the mirror. His face and chest are flushed, pupils wide and glistening with sweat. His lips are red—the mouth of his that Newt loves.

It’s such a basic turn of phrase, but the way Newt said it keeps echoing in Thomas’ head. Not to mention his afterthought, like he’d realized exactly how it came out. Does he feel it too? The growing intimacy of their actions, the urgency, the… How could he not see it? 

It’s so different from the first time they hooked up, Thomas can hardly believe it was even Newt he was with that night. Every action, in hindsight, seemed calculated. It was colder and impersonal. Nothing like they are now.

***

Newt doesn’t see Minho or Ben again for the rest of the night. They stay in Minho’s room, while Newt and Thomas stick to their own corner of the universe. 

“It’s funny that Ben didn’t recognize me,” he says at one point, Thomas laying beside him. “Relieving, really.”

“I’m still worried about him putting two and two together,” Thomas says. His body is nice and warm against Newt’s side.

“Do I need him and Minho to sign NDAs, or did you give Minho the rundown already?” Newt asks, turning his head. Thomas’ eyes widen. “Oh, come on. He’s your best mate. You don’t have to lie.”

Thomas opens his mouth, then closes it, clearly riddled with guilt. Then, “I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything—”

“I said it’s—”

“Oh, fuck, am I going to get sued? I don’t have—”

“Tommy,” Newt laughs. “It’s fine. I just need to know if they’ll be quiet.”

Thomas nods a hundred times. “I swear. Minho knows how important it is. If Ben figures it out, we’ll talk to him.”

Something about this, Thomas’ reaction, doesn’t sit well with Newt. None of this does. The contracts and the hiding, all for what? Making sure people don’t know he likes men? Why is the world so fucked that he has to form fake relationships and avoid real ones at all costs? 

And Newt knows he should ask Thomas if this is working for him. If this on-call type of hook-up schedule is alright, where he never knows if Newt’s going to call or what he’s thinking. He should ask if he’s okay. 

But he can’t. No, he _can_ —but he won’t. Because now, he’s afraid that the answer might kill him. 

“Are you alright?” Thomas asks, the implication clearly being, _did I do something?_

Newt looks at him. His feathery brown hair, his sloped nose, soft lips, and broad shoulders. He’s firm, yet delicate all at once. He’s truly a beautiful person. And right now, Newt feels like nothing next to him. Like he’s tainting him somehow with his mere presence. 

“I’m alright,” Newt says quietly. He turns his body, capturing Thomas’ complacent lips in his and gripping his arm. 

When he pulls away, and all the rest of the night until they fall asleep, Newt wonders if Thomas can see the difference too. 

“Newt? Hey, Newt? Shit. I know, Minho, just go without me! Newt?”

He blinks hard, trying to get his eyes to open, sucking in a breath. “Yeah?”

“I have to get to class.”

Newt starts at that, looking up to find Thomas fully clothed, sitting on the edge of the bed. 

“Right,” Newt croaks.

“I could walk you out, or you could stay here as long as you want to. It’s up to you. You can have anything in our fridge, if you wanted,” Thomas rambles. 

Newt sits up, rubbing his face. “I’ll go. Fuck, what time is it?”

“A little past seven. Sorry. I just didn’t want you to wake up while I was gone and not know where I went,” Thomas says, watching Newt scramble for his phone.

A couple of texts, none urgent. Newt turns his phone off. “You go, I’ll let myself out once I’m dressed.”

“Are you sure?” Thomas says.

Newt nods. “I—” he stops, swallowing. “Have fun at school.”

Thomas smiles. “I don’t think I can promise that,” he says. “Will I… see you?”

It’s terrifying, but there’s nothing Newt would like more. “What’re you doing tomorrow?”


End file.
